


Turning Page

by Ileniss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Everyone Is Gay, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Greg Lestrade Flirts, Greg is Sweet, Heavy Angst, John is a Good Friend, Loss, Love Confessions, M/M, Mycroft is bad at feelings, Protective Greg, Sherlock is a Brat, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28904958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ileniss/pseuds/Ileniss
Summary: Mycroft Holmes didn't know he'd find himself in awe of Detective Inspector Lestrade the first time they saw each other. Neither did he know he was going to wake up in the other's arms one morning, knowing that said Inspector was in fact all his. That moment changed him forever.Greg Lestrade didn't think he'd fall in love with a posh arsehole hiding behind a mask of 'I hate every living and breathing person on this planet'. Neither did he predict finding himself completely dependent on the other. The night that came after changed him forever.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20





	Turning Page

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters' titles are based on Fredrico Lorca's poem "To Find a Kiss of Yours"
> 
> The playlist of songs that have inspired me throughout this journey:  
> dodie - "She"  
> Sleeping At Last - "Turning Page"  
> Elvis Presley - "Can't Help Falling In Love"

He was glorious.

The first thought that crossed Greg Lestrade's mind as soon as Holmes The Older walked into his office accompanied by his completely unamused-looking assistant.

The man stood straight for a long while during which Greg had to gather all of his inner power not to let his jaw drop to the ground. With his perfectly fit grey tuxedo, slightly open to show off his freshly ironed black vest and red tie with golden cufflinks, Mycroft Holmes stared at his interlocutor-to-be with nothing but pure professionalism on his pale face.

"Take a sit" the inspector offered, suddenly feeling a bit underdressed. Mycroft eyed the room, but soon offered a barely visible bow of his head, sitting down in front of Greg's desk. Even when sat, Mycroft Holmes kept his back straight, his arms resting on his lap, not bothering to get more comfortable than that. Did he even know how to slouch? Greg couldn't help but smile a bit as he leaned forward and let his elbow rest on the counter. "What seems to be the case?" he queried, his amused expression never coming off his face.

******************************************

"So what you're saying is-"

"Yes."

"I didn't even get to finish!"

"I didn't need you to."

Greg glared at him with a warning, receiving nothing but a silent shrug in response.

"My little brother has caused a few... Well, theoretically illegal happenings." Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Not just theoretically-"

"Let's not get dramatic-"

"He's caused a bloody shooting, four people were badly injured!"

"Now that you put it that way." the younger man pursed his lips. _Out of embarrassment_ , Greg thought, _he's actually ashamed of what Sherlock's making him do._

Greg sighed quietly, breaking the awkward silence. "You want me to cover for him?" he asked, even though he knew exactly what the answer would be.

Mycroft raised his chin up, looking at him once more. "If it's not too much of an issue" said he, clearly unsure. A man with a reputation must be most careful when asking someone for help, the officer noted. Obviously, that was the reason why Holmes appeared to be so... doubtful.

"No, I suppose s' not- I owe him a bit, I guess," he murmured to himself, glancing down at the files he had been occupied with before his guest arrived. Gosh, getting Sherlock out of trouble would be a lot of paperwork.

"Thank you." Mycroft seemed relieved. "I've better get going. I've got places to be. Good evening, Inspector" he hummed and before Greg managed to choke out a goodbye, the brunette in a nice skirt and suit was closing the door on her boss' way out of the room.

******************************************

"You know, Sergeant Donovan's off duty for the next week" Sally hummed, walking into the DI's office without any warning. "Finally managed to talk to the Super. He agreed, would you believe that?" she gave a sly grin, shaking her head with pure disbelief.

"Never in a million years" the detective mumbled back, raising his head to look at her with a soft smile on his face. "After weeks of asking?"

"Months. It's been months, Greg" she pointed out with a dramatic sigh.

Greg snorted, "alright, months of asking and you finally get to see your family in-Bristol?"

"Doncaster" she corrected and he gave a quiet 'ah' of acknowledgment. "I just came here to warn you."

"Warn me?" he furrowed his brows, leaning back in his seat. "Hit me, then."

"Since I'm leaving you'll be working alone with-"

"Anderson."

"Sherlock Holmes."

They both looked at each other, exchanging worried glances, before Greg bit his lip and looked down at his phone.

"I know he's going to try to take advantage of you while you're under no supervision," she began, making her boss grimace "but promise me you won't be stupid about it. I know he's a stubborn, annoying cock and I know his big brother is the literal definition of Big Brother and couldn't possibly get scarier and weirder than what he already is, but. Super's going to watch you. If you do something risky just because Sherlock has you wrapped around his finger, we'll both get sacked."

Detective Inspector was fighting the urge to kill his colleague at that point. Wrapped around his finger? Sherlock Holmes? He huffed. Sherlock did not have him in his grasp. No matter how annoying, stubborn, brilliant and charming he could get, he did not have any sort of power over him. Not then and not ever. Greg was assertive, decisive and self-confident. He knew how to handle kids like younger Holmes without shooting or arresting anyone (at least most of the time).

"Thank you for your concern, Sally. It's really kind of you to worry" he gave her the fakest smile he could possibly produce, before rolling his shoulders back and reaching for a donut from the pastry box, "if I were you I'd give Anderson the talk. I'm sure he'll make much better use of it."

******************************************

"Sherlock bloody Holmes!"

The screech made everyone in the area jump back and wince - everyone but the consulting detective. Greg Lestrade, clearly pissed off, rushed past the crowd of police officers and stopped in his tracks in front of the taller man, giving him a serious look.

"It's you."

"I don't know what you're referring to-"

"You messed with the files in my office!"

Sherlock grimaced. "Your accusations really hurt my feelings, Graham."

"It's Gre-!"

"Gregory. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade" someone cut him off coldly.

"Thank you very much!" He hummed, gesturing to the side dismissively, but soon frowned and looked over to the mysterious speaker.

There, right behind him, stood Mycroft Holmes in all his glory. Straight-backed, wearing one of his finest suits, but then again- when did he ever not? He wasn't looking at his brother, like usually, but down at Greg, which only made the situation even more awkward than it already was.

"Brother mine, I do believe we had an agreement of some sort," he sighed with a roll of his eyes. Greg couldn't help but watch as the other man's hands slowly rested on his hips. Gesture filled with attitude, yet not lacking elegance.

"You know exactly what I think of your stupid agreements," the younger brother murmured. "Anyways, you telling me to be nice to Lestrade without a proper reasoning for doing so isn't an agreement. It's called an order. And I don't take your orders, Mycroft."

"Wait. You told him to be nice to me?" Greg raised his eyebrow, turning to glance at the man behind him. Still, his tall, thin figure was making him slightly uncomfortable.

"I did no such thing. I simply tried to reason with my dear brother, giving him a chance to become a decent human being" he said with one of the fakest smiles Greg had ever seen.

"Your private life's of no interest to me. I'd love it to stay that way. Go. Away" Sherlock hissed, but soon enough a palm landed on his shoulder, thumb rubbing small circles into it.

"Come on, girls. Calm down. I'll make sure he won't attempt this again, alright?" John Watson's soothing voice was heard and the detective seemed to relax a bit, his previously grumpy expression softening. "Sorry for the trouble, mate," he added, giving Greg an apologetic smile, before the two walked off to catch a cab back home.

"You told him to be nice to me" Greg repeated, sliding his hands into his pockets and turning to face the older Holmes. "Why?"

"I can't have him mess around with law enforcement, can I?" he cleared his throat, but the visible gulp gave him away. Greg decided not to comment on that further.

"Right. Goodnight, then, Mr. Holmes."

"Best regards, Detective Inspector."

******************************************

“You must be bloody kidding me! You? Moving on?!”

Greg winced, gesturing for the other to quiet it down. It was all embarrassing and his companion’s outburst in the middle of the pub didn’t make it any easier.

“Sorry, gosh- I’m just excited. That’s really good, mate. You deserved it. So, there’s someone on your mind?” John hummed with a hint of encouragement in his smile.

“Well, I don’t even know” he bit his lip, scratching his neck nervously.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“It’s been a while since I last had to do the… The flirting thing. I mean, ever since uni, when I met Elena, I didn’t really think of anyone else. I forgot what it felt like to have a ‘crush’... I’m still not sure if I recall it correctly” he chuckled quietly, giving a shrug.

“So you don’t know how you feel, at all. You don’t know if you have a crush or not?” John raised his eyebrow, amused.

“You could put it that way.”

“Alright, listen… I’m not that good with relationships, but speaking from experience here, it’s really easy to tell if you fancy anyone,” he hummed, leaning back against the wall behind him.

Greg began tapping his fingers against the half-empty drink can of Guinness, “yeah?”

“Close your eyes, stop bouncing your leg, you’re fine” he gave a short laugh, before bowing his head. “I need you to think about that person you might have a crush on. Focus on what you see, your imagination. Don’t think about the people around you, no one’s looking, I promise.”

Lestrade closed his eyes shut, quickly giving in. Desperate - God, was he desperate to know. _Close your eyes, think of Mycroft Holmes._ His lip quivered. _Fuck. This was ridiculous._

“Imagine that lucky person dressed in their daily apparel, something they’d like to wear.”

_A grey- no, dark grey suit. Striped. Barely visible, incredibly thin stripes. Vertical. Trousers, ironed, the same shade of grey. Matching. His vest? Probably that black one, he wears it a lot after all. His tie now. He wears a variety of different colours and shades of ties. Blue, red, green, yellow, even golden… Red, it is. Red always suited him the best. Silver cufflinks might look good with that. Now that I think about it, silver’s too cheap. Platinum._

“Greg?”

John’s voice broke him out of his thoughts, making his eyes snap open. “Yes?”

“You’re grinning” he huffed out a small laugh.

Greg frowned, but as soon as he spotted John’s smirk growing, he cursed under his breath, taking a huge sip of his beer.

He was fucked.

******************************************

That night Greg dreamed of Elena. Her green eyes, filled with nothing but love and happiness on the day of their wedding - that's all he wanted to remember of her. The fights, all the screaming and shouting, tears and disappointment, it all didn't matter when he imagined the smile on her rosy face when she let out the quietest 'yes' and leaned in to kiss him. Wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her close, he grinned, hiding his face in her perfectly styled hair, knowing that she was forever his.

Right. About that.

In that moment, maybe, she was his. But they were both too young and too dumb to know what they really wanted.

Getting married right after graduation wasn't the best decision of their lives, as it turned out in the end, but it was all good for as long as it lasted. And it lasted long enough for Greg to get used to it.

In that beautiful dream of his he woke up in their bed, alone. Elena wasn’t there, but then again, she never was. She would always arise half an hour before him, take a shower, do her makeup and get dressed before he would even get out of the sheets.

He sighed quietly, the sudden wave of disappointment washing over him. What was he even expecting? Still sleepy (and a bit bitter) he turned to the other side of the bed, reaching to turn on the lamp by the bedside table, but as he did so he noticed that the whole room had changed. He blinked a few times, rubbing his eyes. He was no longer in his scrappy (but cosy) flat. The sheets seemed to be softer, the bed - bigger and much more comfortable. As he raised his head to look around the room, he noticed how the walls were painted a dark yellowish colour and there were nice carpets all over the floor. Every single piece of furniture seemed to be sculpted like from the late 1870s.

He didn’t know that room. In fact, he was quite sure he had never been in a similar one before. It looked almost like an interior of some sort of a palace. Buckingham, maybe. But what the hell would he be doing there?

He heard voices in the distance, although he couldn’t make any words out of the conversation. A female’s voice, that’s for sure. And- a bloke’s, too. Greg, being curious and stubborn, just had to know what they were talking about.

“I know for a fact that I will be away for the next few days,” the man began, his voice quiet, calm and steady. “I’ve been planning a well-deserved leave for quite some time now and I would like to reclaim it now. Please, reschedule the rest of the week so that I can stay home on Thursday, Friday and Saturday.”

“Should I leave the online meetings unbothered or-”

“Oh, yes. That should be alright. Leave those the way they are, I can handle them from here without a doubt” the bloke audibly smiled.

Greg was just about to walk out the room and see whose house he had found himself in, but the woman’s next words made his heart drop.

“Will do, Mr Holmes.”

So it was Mycroft’s house, then. He looked around. He was in a fancy-looking bedroom. And he’d just woken up in a king size bed, filled with loads of cushions and the softest sheets he had ever had the pleasure of feelings against his skin. Was it… Mycroft’s bed? The feeling of butterflies in Greg’s stomach made him shift uncomfortably.

The sound of footsteps nearing the door he was still hiding behind made him jump back and find himself on the bed in a (hopefully) natural position to sit in. Two, three, four small steps, then it all came to a stop. The door opened and Greg’s breath hitched.

“I see you’re awake. Good. How did you sleep?” Mycroft queried softly and the detective found himself melting in the sound of his voice.

“Very well” he answered, giving the other a small, hopeful smile that the other quickly reciprocated.

“Perfect. Would you like to join me for breakfast?” he offered, finding himself a seat next to Greg.

“Yes, of course. What are we having, again?” he tried to act completely relaxed, but the closeness of Mycroft bloody Holmes made him shiver slightly.

“I was thinking french toast?” the other hummed and before Greg managed to find an adequate response, he could feel the other’s hand on top of his. He tensed up, not trusting his voice anymore. If he tried to speak, he’d probably end up stuttering and forgetting what he had wanted to say anyway.

“Gregory, you look really tense. Are you sure you’re alright?” he gave a soft smile and Greg felt his whole body tremble. ‘Gregory’. And that bloody smile of his…

“I’m sure. Thank you, I’m just… a bit all over the place” he gasped out, looking down to his lap and running his fingers through his messy bed hair.

“Understandable. Take all the time you need, I’ll be downstairs” said Mycroft, pecking the man’s temple and getting up with a gentle squeeze of his hand. Once he was out of the room, Greg finally allowed himself to breathe.

As the door closed behind Mycroft’s silhouette, Greg’s phone went off. The alarm pulled him out of his dreamland in a matter of seconds.

He found himself in his own bedroom with his old sheets and slightly dusty furniture around him that he didn’t seem to mind until then.

And even though the dream had already ended and Lestrade knew it was all just a figment of his imagination, the tingling feeling of Mycroft’s kiss on his temple remained with him for the entire morning.

******************************************

“Could you at least pretend you’re listening to what I’m saying?” groaned Sherlock impatiently, pacing around the office.

Morning, noon, afternoon… The dream just wouldn’t leave Greg alone. He knew what that meant, he just couldn’t force himself to face it.

“I am. Listening, that is” he murmured, pointing at him with his pen. “I’m making notes, can’t you see?”

“Yes, right. You’re not really writing down any of the important stuff.”

“If you could stop showing off and tell me only the important stuff, that’d be much easier.”

Sherlock huffed. Greg just gave him a serious look and sat back in his chair again.

“One more time. From the beginning. Without the unnecessary commentary,” the DI offered with a sigh. “Please.”

As it turned out, all Sherlock really needed was a little push. After a few sweet nothings whispered into his ear by Doctor Watson himself, he relaxed a bit, even though he was still pouting the whole time - something Greg’d gotten used to by then.

The consulting detective told him all the important details of their newest case and pointed out three suspects for further interrogations. Even though Lestrade couldn’t really tell what his younger assistant was attempting to hint, he still wrote down the names and agreed to follow his instructions.

Holmes stormed out of the room as soon as he finished the last sentence of his testimony, leaving John and Greg behind. Licking his lips, the doctor looked around the room like if he was checking whether anyone could hear them, before he took a deep breath.

“So. Bad morning, was it?” he inquired.

“Suppose” Greg shrugged, shifting in his seat.

“Is that in any way related to your… mysterious someone?”

The officer raised his eyebrow. “Why would it be?” he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk countertop.

“We’ve just talked about them last night and now you’re all… well. Dreamy” John pointed out, crossing his arms. “Look, whoever your crush is, I think it’s better if you try to do something about it before you get completely helpless.”

“Speaking from experience again, yes?” Greg joked, making the doctor huff out a short laugh.

“Ta. Very funny, mate. Now, it’s a bit harder with a Holmes,” he reasoned, but Lestrade’s shoulders immediately tensed up. _Right. It is, isn’t it…?_

“But you two got together. It couldn’t have been that hard, then” he tried, but seeing John’s face made him realise how foolish it was to ever believe that.

“Trust me. Holmes wraps you around his finger, turns your life around and makes you fall. Hard. And the funny thing is that he’s not even trying.”

Detective Inspector could feel his chest tighten. Maybe it was his heart, aching, telling him to run away before he’d get hurt again. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the hope that he’d been lacking for years, ever since Elena first broke him down.

“You’re going to try?” John hummed, giving his friend a concerned, but friendly smile.

Greg bit his lip letting out the breath that he didn’t even realise he had been holding, “Mayhap.”

******************************************

Telling John that he would in fact try to talk to his ‘crush’ was the stupidest decision Greg had ever made in his entire existence. Doctor Watson, being the hopeless romantic he was, never stopped texting him about it, giving him pieces of advice and hyping him up in every way possible. After nearly twenty messages the detective decided to completely ignore his phone’s buzzing. Needless to say, John’s constant reminders weren’t of much help.

After just a short period of two hours he could not handle it anymore and finally decided to answer.

‘John, mate, I know you’re trying to help, but it’s really not the best idea to talk to that person. I mean, we barely know each other.’

He didn’t need to wait long. At this point he was sure that Watson hadn’t put his phone down ever since they last met.

‘That’s why you should talk to that person! Get to know them, see what they like… You won’t know how you feel about them unless you meet them properly. -JW’

Greg smiled a bit. _Adorable_ , he thought, _he’s already mirroring Sherlock._

‘It’s not so easy. He’s impossible to read.’

‘So it’s a he. -JW’  
‘You’ll be fine, mate. I promise you. Just try, invite him for a pint or something else that he likes to do and talk. T A L K. It’s not that hard. -JW’

_Not hard, impossible._

‘You’re only saying that because it was so easy for you. Sherlock fell head over heels for you the day you two met.’

‘Who knows, maybe I’m not the only lucky one ;) -JW’

Luck. Was having someone like you back a matter of luck? In that case Greg wasn’t exactly sure of his fortune...

**************************************

The sun was already setting, when Detective Inspector left the building of New Scotland Yard in a hurry. Walking down the street in a downpour wasn’t exactly his idea of a perfect afternoon, but he didn’t really have time to complain.

Soon his stroll turned into a jog towards his car. All he needed to do was run half a mile and get in without flooding the entire interior.

Stupid parking spots and an even stupider lack of them.

After catching a few droplets in his eyes, he ducked his head, groaning. Really, not only was he cold and underdressed for such weather, he was also blinded. Perfect. Not having a bloody clue about where he was headed, he gripped his jacket tighter and kept on moving forward with all the determination left in him.

“Inspector!” he heard someone call out. “Please, be my guest.”

Disoriented and not exactly conscious enough to process the offer, he looked up and around, trying to navigate whoever had been so kind to offer- well, whatever they were offering.

“Here,” slender fingers wrapped around his arm and guided him to shelter.

There he was, stood under some sort of a roof, with someone’s hand gripping his arm gently. He rubbed his eyes and blinked the water away, before looking up to his saviour. “Oh.”

Mycroft Holmes, somehow perfectly dry, stood right next to him, his umbrella above the two of them. Only then did he realise how close they were standing - and that Mycroft never really let go off him.

“One should always be prepared. Perhaps now you’ve realised why I always carry the umbrella with me.” he hummed, his voice sounding much warmer than his usual professional tone. Or maybe it was just all in Greg’s head. Imaging things had always been his strong suit after all…

“I supposed it isn’t completely unreasonable,” said Greg, letting out a short laugh, “although I always thought its purpose was to be… aesthetically pleasing.”

“Is it? Aesthetically pleasing, I mean,” Mycroft raised his eyebrow and the detective shrugged simply.

“Sort of.”

Holmes seemed to be satisfied with the answer. “Were you headed to your car?”

“Well, yes. Not really the easiest task, I’m sure you understand.” he huffed.

“Of course,” he gave a nod, “would you allow me to walk you to said vehicle? The ‘task’ should appear much less demanding with a little help from my aesthetically pleasing umbrella.”

Greg furrowed his brows with an amused expression on his soaked face. “You surely know how to make things sound much more thrilling than they really are,” he pointed out, making the corner of the other’s lips twitch slightly.

“Well.”

The two stood there in comfortable silence for quite a moment, just looking at each other and taking in the moment. Greg quickly noticed the way Mycroft’s grey eyes were initiating eye contact. He couldn’t help but wonder - how often did he have to do that, look straight into people’s eyes, intimidate them with that powerful gaze of his? And how was it that in that exact moment his look didn’t seem to be as scary as it’d been before. It was almost… calming.

Fuck.

“You’re shivering, Detective Inspector. I think it would be wise to take off now.” Mycroft pointed out, clearing his throat.

God, if he had only known the real reason why Greg was ‘shivering’...

“You’re here alone?” he queried once they’d begun walking down the busy street of London again. He’d decided against speaking up about Mycroft’s left hand still being wrapped around his bicep.

“That does happen, whether you believe it or not,” he replied simply.

“So… No private assistants, no black limos and no secret agents? Just an evening stroll around the city?”

“I suppose you could say that. Although it did not end the way I had expected it to.”

“Do you need a ride back home, then?” Greg offered, only then daring to look up to the other man. A small smile appeared on his face as he noticed Mycroft roll his tense shoulders back - so he surprised him. Huh. Good to know.

“You mean-”

“Oh, you know what I mean. I can drive you home so you don’t have to walk or catch a cab. I’m sure your private drivers would appreciate a day off, too” he grinned.

Mycroft let out a sound similar to a snicker, “without a doubt.”

“And I’d like to believe I’m just slightly better company than a random cabbie.”

“Once again, without a doubt.”

With a little glance to the side he spotted Mycroft’s smile and felt his heart skip a beat. The downpour didn’t seem to matter then, when his ray of sunshine broke through the cloudy, grey skies.

In that exact moment he knew he’d do all it would take to make that man smile more often.

**************************************

“If I didn’t know any better I would guess you’d slept with someone last night.”

Greg’s head shot up, his smile disappearing from his face as he looked around. Soon enough he spotted the aggressor - Sergeant Sally Donovan herself.

“Who knows, maybe you’d be surprised,” he teased, gaining nothing but a grimace in response.

She made her way to his desk and leaned her hip against it, looking down at him with her eyebrows raised. “So? Are you gonna tell me what happened?”

“Do I owe you an explanation?” he crossed his arms, getting more comfortable in his seat.

“You’re smiling like crazy, bouncing like an overexcited puppy and even more surprisingly,” she looked over at the glass door, “you’ve finished all the paperwork. And it wasn’t even our division.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No, Greg. It wasn’t.”

He pursed his lips, “suppose you have a point, then. I should explain my bizarre behaviour.”

“Are you going to?”

“Not in a million years, love.”

Donovan huffed at the cheeky grin on her boss’ face. Giving him a quick look of disapproval, she stood up straight again and collected the papers waiting on the edge of the desk countertop.

“Did you-” she furrowed her brows and stared at the files for a second too long, before glancing at him- “you binded them.”

“Yes.”

“Segregated by… colour?”

“In a rainbow order, yes.”

“...That’s a suggestion?”

“Leave.”

**************************************

“I live in a world of goldfish, Sherlock. You know what I think of… normal people.”

“Oh yes, but I’ve been busy.”

“How is that of importance to me?”

“Well. I just thought you’d find yourself a… goldfish.”

“Change the subject. Now.”

Heading up the stairs of 221B Baker Street Greg could expect to hear anything - screaming, shouting, whimpering, sobbing, despair, sorrow, deaths, heartbreaks and reunions. Despite the list going on and on, he never would have thought he’d witness… an act of brotherly compassion. He had to admit it was a nice change.

Goldfish. Of course. He gave a quiet sigh, trying not to make it painfully obvious that not only did he overhear the entire conversation, but was also deeply hurt by the moral of it.

He knocked on the door, patiently waiting for Sherlock’s annoyed screech, but heard the smoothest of voices instead.

“Please, come in, Inspector,” said Mycroft Holmes, formal as ever. Greg couldn’t help but wonder - was he putting on an act in front of his brother or was the evening in the rain utterly meaningless to him?

He pushed the door open, feeling his heart begin to beat faster. Why did Mycroft have to be _everywhere_ where he was headed? At that point he was almost sure he had been cursed - or blessed...

“Good morning. Got anything interesting for me?” Sherlock hummed from his visibly comfortable position in his armchair. His skinny figure seemed to drown in all those cushions.

“Well, yes, I suppose,” Greg shrugged, “depends on what you’d call interesting.”

“You know what I find exciting.”

“I also know how often you change your mind.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but before he managed to come up with a mean comment, he glanced over at his brother and frowned. “You’re smiling,” he murmured.

“Pardon?” Mycroft hummed from behind his cup, which had been discreetly covering his lips the entire time.

“You, brother mine, are smiling. Smirking, even” the youngest man repeated, staring intensely.

“Nonsense. Why would I be smiling?”

“I don’t know, _you_ tell me.”

After a moment of quite uncomfortable silence, Lestrade cleared his throat, bringing Sherlock’s attention back to him. “Yes, alright, you’re both equally pretty. Now, Sherlock, will you come?”

Sherlock’s gaze immediately came back to his brother and Greg could have sworn he saw him grin a bit, before he went cold again. “You’re still stuck on Miss Mary Davis’ case? I swear, the police are only getting slower…”

“Actually-” he cut him off with a quiet hiss- “I have just solved that one a few hours ago. Looks like it’s not just the police that’s slow with information.”

That time he unquestionably heard Mycroft’s barely audible snicker, before the man hid his face behind the cup again.

His gaze stayed there, on his face, for a longer while. Observing his features, he noticed how his nose scrunched slightly as soon as he took a sip of his tea. Was it not good? Maybe. Or maybe he was just so amused… Wanting to laugh more openly or at least smile sincerely, but not wanting to break cover in front of his little brother. And his smiles, those were magical. Mysterious, barely there, but even a glimpse could brighten up one’s day…

Their eyes finally met. Just like always, Mycroft initiated and held eye contact, not giving up on it. Fighting for it. And once again, he wasn’t trying to be intimidating. There was something blissful about it that Greg couldn’t quite describe. His lips curled up in a small, unsure smile and soon - so did Holmes’.

Was he even allowed to look at him like that? Could it be wrong if he was just so nice to look at? He’d never tell, he wouldn’t dare to say a word. It ached, oh how much did it ache, but it felt oddly good to hurt. For the time being he was completely fine admiring him from afar. Even when they were so close, right next to one another, they couldn’t possibly be more far apart…

Sherlock’s groan made both of them jump up. The bond that they’ve managed to create in a matter of seconds had faded. Greg couldn’t really tell if he wanted to murder the bastard or thank him…

“Will you be there, then?” he asked, turning his head back to the younger man.

“Text me the address and some details,” he murmured, unamused.

Detective Inspector turned back to the hallway and allowed himself to hesitate for a second, before heading for the front door.

“Lestrade!”

He stopped in his tracks. Once again, he glanced over at Sherlock, waiting for whatever he had to add.

“How do you feel about goldfish?”

“Sherlock-”

Mycroft’s voice was cut off by Greg’s hearty chuckle. “I suppose you could say I have a soft spot for those.” And having said that, he disappeared behind the corner, leaving the consulting detective with a sly smirk on his face.

**************************************

“Greg said what?!” John’s voice rang in the DI’s ears as he walked out of his office. He almost dropped his mug, trying to recover from the sudden screech.

“‘Greg’ is here,” he murmured, blinking a few times, like if that would save his ears from what had already come.

“Excuse me,” he cleared his throat, turning to face him properly, “you said what?!”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to” he frowned, but as soon as Sherlock raised his eyebrow and gave him a knowing look, he knew what the sentence in question was. His eyes widened and he quickly turned to close the door behind him. Sally, who had been sitting on the couch in his office discussing their ongoing case for the last half an hour, was already pricking up her ears. “So I’m assuming that was a… rhetorical question.”

“Well, yes, but- You can’t be serious,” John crossed his arms.

“What?”

“How could you?”

Greg could feel his heart in his mouth, “I-”

“You’ve really made the exact same mistake as me and fell for a Holmes, huh?” he bursted out laughing. “You sure do love a challenge…”

“Fell suggests attraction of a higher sort. More than a crush, but not exactly love yet. In this case, it would be an overstatement,” Sherlock started, but as soon as his eyes met Greg’s worried gaze, he paused, his jaw dropping a bit.

“Would it?” he mumbled out, his voice getting lost somewhere in between Sherlock’s stuttering. Before he managed to finish his sentence, the inspector had already disappeared back into his office.

Fuck. He was exceedingly foolish, wasn’t he? What was he even thinking, saying things like that in front of Sherlock - and even worse, in front of Mycroft?! Was he insane? He must have been a lunatic.

Ever since the incident he’d been hoping that Mycroft would somehow forget it, not overthink it, maybe even miss it completely and misunderstand to Greg’s advantage. Thus he could keep on pining in peace, not experiencing palpitations at any given occasion. Who knows, maybe he would even get some sleep at night instead of repeating ‘I have a soft spot for goldfish’ in his head over and over again.

But seeing Sherlock’s expression, that devilish smirk darkening his already pale and intimidating face, and knowing how clever the Holmes brothers were, was taking his hope away and, in consequence, tearing him apart, too.

“So what was that about?” Sally inquired, making Greg yelp. He had completely forgotten about her still being there…

“Where were we?” He tried ignoring her completely.

She jumped off the couch and walked over to his side, raising her eyebrow. “Come on! Tell me what that freak wanted from you.” she demanded.

“He has a name. Do use it.” he mumbled, turning away from her piercing gaze.

“Since when do you correct me on Sherlock’s account?” she hummed.

“I don’t know, a person can change due to certain circumstances, can’t they?”

“And now you sound posh, too. What are you planning?” she insisted.

He groaned. “Whatever you mean?”

“ _WHATEVER YOU MEAN!_ ” she threw her hands up and scoffed.

Greg frowned, “what’s wrong with that?”

“There is nothing _wrong_ with that, that’s rather the point.”

“You’re being unreasonable.”

“And you’re changing,” she pointed her finger right at his chest, poking him roughly, “you’ve even ironed your shirt. What’s going on?”

“I know I’m a man and in your eyes I’m a heterosexual, but it’s really not so weird to stay nice and neat! Ironing isn’t posh, it’s decent!” he barked back.

“In my eyes?” she questioned.

“Apparently, in everyone’s.”

“And that is not true?”

“No.”

“So that’s why you bound your papers in rainbow order-”

“For fuck’s sake, Donovan!” he crossed his arms and leaned his back against the door, “could you stop?”

“I’m only now finding out my best friend is…?” she stopped, giving him a confused look.

Knowing what she was waiting for, he sighed. “Bisexual,” he gave in.

“...Bisexual. And now you’re telling me to stop? You’ve never even bothered to tell me!”

“I figured it wouldn’t exactly matter to you of all people.”

“Ouch. That one really hurt, Lestrade.”

Greg let out an exasperated sigh and looked to mug, long-forgotten in his hand. He was still dying for a coffee…

“So you’re dating someone new?” she tried again, catching him by surprise.

“No.”

“Thinking of asking someone out?”

“Not really.”

“But someone special caught your eye,” she tilted her head.

“Yep,” he murmured, tight-lipped.

“A bloke, then.”

“Hm.”

“And you’re seeing him today?”

He half-smiled. “Why?”

“You look much… better than usually. Could mean you’re hoping to see him tonight.”

“Lately, I see him everywhere I go. I’m not hoping to see him, but it’s possible that I might. You could never know.”

“Is that why you’re so giddy all the time?” Sally smirked knowingly.

“Giddy?”

“Oh, you know. Smiling, allowing Anderson to... Well, breathe around you. And being nice to everyone. You’ve even made coffee for me today in the morning. That is not something you usually have the time and courage for,” she pointed out, making him wince.

“You make me sound like a bloody awful friend.”

Sally giggled, turning away to try and keep her cool. Even though she failed miserably, Greg didn’t have time to scold her for that, as someone knocked on the door to his office, making both of them glance over in its direction.

“Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade?” a soft, female voice came from the outside. “My name’s Anthea, Mr Holmes’ personal assistant. We have met a few times before, I’m sure. You’re welcome anytime you’re ready, do not worry about your own vehicle, you will be brought back to Scotland Yard just in time to pick it up before your parking ticket expires.”

Before anyone made any sort of attempt at a reply, Anthea had already walked off, her heels clicking against the tile floors. Donovan stood completely frozen for a few seconds more, before her jaw dropped. Turning her gaze to Greg again, her slack-jawed expression quickly turned to a grin, as she pointed her finger right at him with a maniac look in her widely open eyes.

“That’s it,” she mumbled excitedly, “that’s him!”

Greg turned his head and tried to take a sip of whatever was left of his cold coffee, but the blush that overcame his face made Sally laugh heartily.

“No fucking way! You like Big Brother?!”

“Shut up, will ya?” he rebuked her quickly.

“No. Fucking. Way.” she emphasized.

“Shut. Up.” he glared at her, before shoving the mug into her hands and grabbing his trench coat, fixing his hair a bit in the mirror and taking a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back. “Now if you excuse me-” he looked to her with a sly smile. “I’ve got a meeting to attend.”

**************************************

“We’re here,” Anthea said, her voice breathy and collected. Greg found her quiet humming and mumbling pleasant to listen to. Not quite as pleasant as a certain cold and posh-sounding tone of her employer, though…

“Right,” he smiled at her softly and was taken aback as soon as the woman smiled back to him, “thank you for the ride, then.”

“Thank _you_ ,” she responded calmly, looking back to her phone and getting lost in texts and emails again. He didn't even have time to ask what she had meant, as the doors closed quickly after that.

The car drove off, leaving Detective Inspector at the doorstep of Diogenes Club. Knowing the requirements of said place, he took a deep breath and took a bit of time trying to recall the bits and pieces of sign language that he had managed to learn over the years.

Deciding that he wouldn’t remember anything more than a few easy sentences, he walked in, taking a look around the main hall. The entrance looked more pricey than his entire flat… And soon it hit him.

Ah. So that’s how his mind had created the image of Mycroft’s bedroom.

He blushed a bit, trying not to let it show too much, before moving to the left corridor and finding room number 6. He’d tense up at the sound of footsteps approaching, praying that no one would make him speak. God, his BSL was awful…

He knocked on the door twice, soon stepping away to avoid getting hit in the face. The idea of that starting his meeting with Mycroft wasn’t exactly the best one he could imagine. And to be honest, his head had already come up with a billion scenarios of what could possibly go wrong.

Greg wasn’t expecting a ‘come in’ or even a ‘good morning’, but a warning (could be a tap against the floor or the door itself) would have been nice. Instead, he found himself completely bewildered as soon as Mycroft Holmes’ tall figure appeared in the doorway, giving him a polite smile and gesturing for him to walk in.

Feeling the raging need to leave the awkward silence behind, he stepped into the room, the door almost immediately closing behind him.

“Good morning, Detective Inspector,” said Mycroft finally, fixing his tie a bit. Greg couldn’t help but watch his hands as he was doing so.

“Uh, hi. Hello,” he hummed with a tight-lipped smile, “I’m not sure if I should know why you’ve called me in here..?”

“Oh.” Holmes turned to the center of the room and offered him a seat in one of the armchairs. The only reason why the detective took it was because he knew that his knees were one Mycroft’s smile away from going weak.

“Don’t look so scared, Inspector, I promise it is nothing of greater concern.”

“To who?”

“To society,” he smiled a bit and God, was Greg grateful for that chair.

He nodded, smiling back just a bit, the joke making him relax slightly. “So,” he began again, “what is it then?”

“Well-” Mycroft straightened his back and reached over to the table next to him, picking up the morning paper. He didn’t seem like someone who enjoyed journalism, but there he was, looking through it until he found something that made his eyes sparkle for a second- “Were you aware of just how famous you’ve become over the past few weeks? Taking Sarah Brown’s case was one of the best decisions of your career, one would dare to say.”

Taking advantage of the fact that Mycroft wasn’t really looking, he licked his lips and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to calm down. Why in the hell would they be talking about that? Was it so important? And what did it have to do with Sherlock?

“But it wasn’t the hardest one the Yard had ever had. Miss Mary Davis…” he continued, turning the page and finally looking up to the other. “That lovely lady, found dead in her own home, all the doors and windows locked from the inside. The forensic team thought it was a suicide?”

Greg nodded, “oh yes.”

“But you were not entirely sure about that?”

“No.” he took a deep breath. “But then again, nobody can ever be sure when it comes to death. It is a mystery for a reason, isn’t it?”

“Quite so, Detective Inspector,” he answered with a gentle hum, putting the newspaper away. The page it had been opened on had a picture of Greg himself, Sally somewhere in the background, as he talked to one of the members of his team. Paparazzi, then. _God, when did that even happen?_

“Would you like a cup of tea? I could also offer coffee, water or scotch, if preferred,” said Mycroft, making Greg snap out of whatever trance he had found himself in.

“Oh yes, sure. Coffee’s fine.” he beamed, maybe a bit too excitedly for someone who had just discussed a young woman’s murder.

To be honest the detective didn’t really think Mycroft would make their drinks himself. He could imagine him calling someone and ordering them to make them for him. But there he was, standing near the little kitchen place and Greg’s heart fluttered at how simplistic and domestic it was.

“So,” he cleared his throat, his dreamy smile still on his lips, “you wanted to talk to a celebrity?” he raised his eyebrow, gaining a quiet, half-laugh from the other.

“Oh, definitely. That was exactly my evil plan,” he nodded, not turning away from their drinks. “Do you take sugar?”

“No.”

“Milk?”

“Nope.”

“Anything at all I can suggest?” he looked over his shoulder.

“I like it dark and bitter.”

The corner of Mycroft’s lips curled up as he turned back to the countertop. “I would have never guessed.”

“I’m pretty sure you already knew. By the state of my- Left ear?”

Mycroft snickered. “Don’t be ridiculous, that is my brother’s habit,” he rolled his eyes and soon put two cups on the table between them, “I’d know based on your right sleeve.”

Greg looked down at his arm, realising that his sleeve had been rolled up - a pathetic attempt at hiding a coffee stain. He laughed out loud, shaking his head and reaching for the cup. “Wow.”

“Not really.”

“It is, indeed, a ‘wow’ situation. Barely anyone notices.”

“I wouldn’t have had a reason to call myself an intelligent individual if they did.”

“I’m sure there’s plenty of other reasons…” his fingers tapped against the cup nervously. Trying to control them was not an option anymore. It somehow relieved his stress, maybe not the most efficiently, but it was better than nothing. “Still… I don’t exactly know what any of this has to do with… You know.”

“Oh no, Gregory, this is not about Sherlock. I figured you might want a… break. From my childish brother,” he stammered in the middle. Was Mycroft… nervous? Why? Was it because of how many awkward situations Sherlock had put him in again? And did he just call him… by his actual name?

“Hey, that’s fine, I can handle him. Now that John’s around it’s all much easier…” he assured. Well, Mycroft didn’t look too reassured.

“Yes, ever since my brother got involved in a romantic relationship with Doctor Watson he’s been… tameable.”

Greg snickered, “that is one way to put it.”

Mycroft smiled, “how else would you put it?”

“He’s found someone that keeps him in a healthy amount of trouble. He’s happy.”

“Happy…” he whispered, and Detective Inspector couldn’t help but wonder what was so surprising to him about the word itself, “because he’s found someone?”

“They’re in love. It’s natural to be happy with the one person that you fall for.”

“Only if it’s reciprocated,” he answered, tight-lipped.

“Sometimes you’re just happy spending the time with them, even if they don’t love you back. It’s a bit of a complex process and one has to learn how to live with possible rejection, but seeing the other content is always worth it.” said Greg, giving the other a friendly look. “It’s not always about getting what you want. That’s what makes getting it so special.”

“Human psychology is one of the most difficult branches of science. I've been studying all the best books by the wisest and most rational psychologists and I've never heard nor read anything quite like... what you've just said,” Mycroft hummed after a moment of complete silence, staring at the other with both undivided attention and astonishment.

Greg blushed a dark red, taking a sip of his coffee in order to hide his face from the politician’s gaze. “Maybe-” he started, putting the cup back down- “because love is irrational. The most irrational thing we could imagine. Yet we all experience it at some point. Whether we like it or not.”

“Quite right,” Mycroft let himself rest his chin on top of his fist, sitting back more comfortably, “whether we like it or not.”

**************************************

‘May I ask what your plans for tonight are? M.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t have any at the moment.’

‘That could change. M.’

‘Could it?’

‘Would you like it to? M.’

‘Gladly’

‘Perfect. M.’  
‘8 sounds good? M.’

‘Works for me. What are we doing?’

‘I was hoping for another one of our incredibly fascinating discussions. And maybe adding scotch to the mix. M.’

‘Count me in, then, Mr Holmes.’

‘See you there, then, Inspector Lestrade.’

**************************************

‘Hey. Doing anything?’

‘Currently cleaning up some old papers. You’d be surprised how much data must be written down to please the authorities. Like if the climate crisis wasn’t enough. M.’

‘Gah. Must be horrible’

‘Not entirely the worst night I could imagine, but it would be nice to have a free friday evening for once. M.’

‘Well, maybe if you had some help you’d have a free evening?’

‘Is that an offer? M.’

‘Only if you want it to be!’

‘I’d gladly have you around, Detective Inspector. M.’

‘Be there in ten’  
‘:)’

**************************************

‘Alright. Christmas is coming, Sherlock said you didn’t have any plans. How ‘tedious’ does coming to Baker Street’s Christmas party sound?’

‘On scale of 1-10, maybe a 7. M.’

‘If I told you there’d be cake and the finest wine I was capable of finding?’

‘Hm. 5. M.’

‘You know, I’ll also be there. With a present for you.’

‘Fine. A 2, then. M.’

‘So will you be there?’

‘I’m not sure if my brother would appreciate having me for Christmas. M.’

‘He’ll be delighted. Trust me.’  
‘John’s also excited to have you around.’  
‘Come on, it won’t be that bad. It’s just your family and friends. Believe it or not, they like you.’

‘That is something I would have a hard time trusting… M.’

‘So you’ll have to trust me instead.’

**************************************

“What exactly does one do at a Christmas party?” Mycroft asked, his voice soft and quiet. He sat cross-legged, staring at the wall with his fingers forming a little pyramid.

“Why are you asking?” Anthea raised her head, giving him a short glance.

“Nothing too personal. But I must know. So if you have any knowledge on the subject, I’d gladly hear it all out,” he murmured back.

His personal assistant furrowed her brows and thought for a moment, before sighing. “Well. It all depends on what you mean. If it’s a Christmas party with friends, you mostly spend the evening getting drunk and joking around-”

“Can you imagine me getting drunk and joking around?” Mycroft turned to her unamused.

She snickered, “not necessarily.”

“So, let me ask again. What do I do at a Christmas party?”

“Well. I know you don’t enjoy social events due to the amount of people around you. If I were you, I’d find that one person who’ll help you through it and stick to them.” She shrugged and soon crossed her arms. “So. Anyone in mind?”

Mycroft closed his eyes. Gregory. He did force him to go, after all. If he had no intentions of staying by his side the whole evening, his invitation would be pointless and cruel. Or maybe people did that? Invited others to social events and left them to their own? He had no idea.

“Do people do that?” he queried.

“Do what?”

“Leave people alone at Christmas parties?”

Anthea gave a quiet, but long sigh, getting up from her spot on the couch. “Mycroft…” she began, her voice much softer than before. She stopped behind his chair, resting her hands on his shoulders, “it’s stressing you out, I get it, but it’s all going to be fine. Lestrade will be there, right? He doesn’t look like the type to leave you. In fact, he looks like just the type to make sure you’re having fun and help you relax a bit.”

Mycroft winced, “how do you know he will be there?”

“You wouldn’t agree to go otherwise,” she whispered, a small smile appearing on her face, “would you now?”

 _No_ , he thought, hiding his face in his palms, _he wouldn’t_.

**************************************

“Sir, do you need a ride to Baker Street or should I tell the drivers to spend a nice evening with their families?” Anthea’s voice rang in Mycroft’s ears, leaving him slightly lightheaded.

The day had come. Gregory had first invited him two weeks in advance and yet that time seemed to pass in a matter of just a few days. He thought he would find time to prepare himself for such an occasion, but it all slipped away before he knew it.

“Sir?”

“Of course I’m going to need a ride. I am paying those men for a reason,” he mumbled back, fixing his tie for what felt like the millionth time.

“Oh, I just thought you’d have… company.” The corners of her eyes crinkled as she spoke.

He gave her a quick, but dirty look, “don’t be ridiculous.”

“I suppose there’s still hope for that company by the end of the night, isn’t there?” she beamed, making him brighten up a bit. Her smile gave him just the slightest bit of hope that maybe, just maybe, she was correct.

On his way to Baker Street he kept his nose in a book. How foolish to think that it could help in any way. The fleeting images of who he was about to spend his evening with made him nauseous. The nervousness, anxieties, it was all getting overwhelming and unbearable to the point where he had to put the tome away and wrap his arm around himself, then crack a window. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, taking in the refreshing, cold air. The visions were getting stronger. The man’s unsure smile, his raised eyebrow when he was confused, his quiet laughter whenever he’d make a small joke, his snarky comments that seemed to work on Sherlock better than anything Mycroft had ever tried in order to tame his beastly brother - everything about him was interesting in its own way. How, one would dare to ask, but the question was to stay unanswered.

The driver rolled his window down to announce that they had arrived, but Mycroft shot him a glare. There was a no talking rule in that car and all of his long term workers knew that - no unnecessary comments or noises, just silence. Thoughts. Him and his head, alone.

Poor man must not have known that yet. Realising that it was Christmas after all, he decided against making his annoyance too obvious. He gave a nod of nothing more than acknowledgement and waved the bloke off, before getting out of the car and pulling the bag of gifts behind him. The vehicle disappeared into the night, as he still stood there on the porch, wondering why he had ever even agreed to come.

A muscle in his jaw twitched as he knocked on the door. If there had been a chance to back off, it was certainly gone by then. Mrs Hudson’s quick footsteps were heard and soon he was being pulled inside.

“Mycroft, what a nice change!” She smiled widely, her voice warm and friendly, like always. “You’re just on time! Everyone’s already upstairs, I’ll join you all in a second. Just need to get the biscuits!” She gave him an encouraging look and turned around on her heels, leaving him alone in the dark hallway.

“Brother mine, do come upstairs, we’re all waiting to open up our presents,” an annoyed sigh came from behind him, making Mycroft jump up, “come on. Even Molly came before you.”

So at the party was Doctor Watson, Sherlock, Gregory and Molly..? Who else had been invited? He tugged on his tie, only then realising how difficult it was to breathe, but not being able to tell what the reasoning behind it was yet - nervousness or the fireplace in the living room?

“Mycroft’s here?” he heard a female voice ask. He winced.

“Oh, yes. Just arrived.”

“I really thought he wouldn’t come...” hummed a soft, male voice that time.

“I told you he would, John.”

He made his way up the stairs, deciding to interrupt that tedious conversation about him. It had already been awkward enough without everyone jumping into conclusions.

He stopped in the doorway, scanning the entire room, before clearing his throat as silently as he could. The gulp in his throat didn’t go away, though. Doctor Hooper and Doctor Watson were sitting on the sofa and chatting as Sherlock stood near the Christmas tree. He frowned a bit.

“Lestrade’s fixing up the fire,” he heard Sherlock say with a sly smirk on his face.

And just as he turned to look in said direction, he spotted what he had been subconsciously looking for. Gregory looked up at the sound of his last name, his mouth curving into a smile as soon as he locked eyes with the older Holmes. Soon enough he glanced at something above the other and gave a short laugh.

He grinned, getting up and wiping his hands on his trousers. “You might want to move away from the doorway.”

Before Mycroft managed to answer, he tried his luck and looked to what was above him, expecting a bucket of paint or another sort of prank designed by his brother, but saw some sort of plant instead. Soon enough the realisation hit him, his eyes widening and his jaw clenching as he moved away faster than he had intended to. That made Sherlock snicker and roll his eyes, clearly amused.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” Mycroft gaped at his brother.

“A mistletoe is a Christmas tradition. It wasn’t necessarily a trap set for you… Because again, why would it be?” he raised his eyebrow, but received nothing but a glare in response.

“Hey, why don’t we all just unpack our presents now?” John clapped his hands, turning both Holmes brothers’ attention to him. “Molly, ladies first.”

First Miss Hooper and Mrs Hudson, then John, Sherlock and finally Gregory. Mycroft couldn’t help but watch him the entire time. His eyes glistened as he unwrapped the first present, thanking Molly for the shirt she got him. Then a gift from John and Sherlock, which made him chuckle and shake his head with happiness and amusement written all over his features.

“So, now it’s Mycroft-” Sherlock began, but his brother cut him off instantly.

“Actually, there’s one more for Detective Inspector,” he said calmly, reaching into his bag and pulling out a nicely wrapped, black present with a golden ribbon, “here.”

Greg looked up, drawing his lower lip between his teeth, before he reached to open one last present. He put the wrapper away carefully, along with the ribbon, smiling to himself. “It’s the most posh-looking package I’ve ever had in my hands,” he mumbled, still attempting to find a way to open the box without ruining it.

“Hm.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s actually adorable,” Greg said quickly, beaming. Mycroft’s mouth twitched.

Shortly after, Lestrade managed to finally unpack his present. “Oh- Oh, my God, Mycroft you really didn’t have to!” He gasped, looking away from the etiquette on the bottle before him for the first time since he first saw it. His eyes met Mycroft’s gaze immediately, leading the older Holmes straight to his own, personal demise.

“You did say you enjoyed a good scotch. From what I’ve heard, there is no better,” he explained, clearing his throat before his expression dulled yet again.

“Well, yes, but I- This must have been costly…” he tried to reason.

“Christmas is a season of giving and sharing. Money is not an issue in question.” He stated firmly enough for Greg to give in and accept the gift.

“Now, are you two done?” Sherlock sighed dramatically, glancing up to the ceiling. Greg turned crimson and Mycroft found himself having to turn away to prevent himself from smiling at that. “Brother, open yours now. Then we can finally move on.”

The older Holmes had a small bag and a blue box to open. He reached for the bag first, deciding it would be easier to get it over with. He could see Greg visibly tense up at his choice, but decided to pretend to not have seen that. He undid the ribbon and looked inside, soon pulling out a jewellery box. Well, that was interesting. He opened it, soon smiling a bit at a pair of cufflinks. Platinum? Yes, definitely.

He looked up to Sherlock, raising his eyebrows, but he shook his head and shrugged. Not him, then. If not him, then not Doctor Watson. The realisation hit him just in time to hear Greg’s quiet gulp and a soft:

“I hope they’re not… Well, I hope they’re your type.”

Sherlock snorted, “now that’s not something I thought I’d hear tonight.”

“Shut up.”

“Thank you, Gregory.” Mycroft managed to say after the two stopped their bickering. “They’re…” he looked up to him, his face softening completely, “gorgeous.”

Something in Greg’s eyes made his heart jump. For a moment he lost track of what he was saying, and found himself in a place where that didn’t even matter. Despite all the years of experience, he still felt completely lost in the other man’s gaze. Nothing could have ever prepared him for the privilege of being so close to him would do to his head.

He felt a hand on his shoulder- no, not shoulder, a bit lower, his bicep, then. The warmth of Gregory’s touch reminded him why he had agreed to attend the Christmas party in the first place, and his smile as he blushed made him forget again.

“You’re welcome,” the detective whispered, his voice sounding sweeter than anything Mycroft had ever heard. That voice, just two simple words, left him longing for more. In that exact moment he even dared to wonder what it must have felt like to be… his.

He could see Doctor Watson reach for Sherlock’s hand and look at him with a proud smile in the corner of his eye, but knowing what the two were trying to do, he decided against turning Greg’s attention to them. It would only ruin everything. Sherlock must have known that if Lestrade found out about his fondness towards him, they’d probably never see each other again, so why was he trying to expose it at all times..?

“There’s one more,” Greg noticed softly, letting go off Mycroft’s arm for good. He was almost sure the disappointment he felt was visible in his eyes. Nobody seemed to notice, though, or at least not Greg, whose face brightened up with a reassuring smile.

Sherlock had gotten him a spa appointment. His expression must have been very telling as his brother and his partner ended up giggling, Molly just hid her face in her hands, clearly ashamed of both of them, Mrs Hudson excused herself to the loo, bursting out laughing, and Greg just sat there with a fond smile, letting his chin rest on top of his clenched fist.

“Having fun yet?” he queried, the dreamy look never fading.

“Yes, well, it’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” Mycroft admitted, gaining a chuckle in response.

“That’s good,” the Inspector hummed. Not even a few seconds had gone by before he spoke up again, “you look really nice, too.”

Holmes’ face went blank. Nice? What did that even mean? “Thank you. So do you, Inspector. If I may point out, juniper green is most certainly your colour,” he tried, knowing that he was on a completely unknown territory and any step further could prove fatal.

Much to his surprise, Greg just grinned, looking down to his shirt and tugging on the collar slightly. “Thank you very much, it’s one of my favourites, too.”

One more thing to remember for future purposes, then.

“Also, I’m really sorry I got you something as shitty as those… You listened to my rant and bought something I’ve mentioned to like and I got you posh things you probably already have a million of-”

“No, Gregory, I don’t. It is a thoughtful present and I like it very much. Actually,” he got up from his seat on the slightly uncomfortable armchair and turned to face the mirror above the fireplace, “I shall put them on just now, as you’ve mentioned them.”

“You really don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

The two shared a quick look, but that one did not linger. Greg looked away, nibbling on his bottom lip as Mycroft turned back to the mirror to put the cufflinks in their place.Why did he turn away? What did he do wrong? He couldn’t help but wonder if there was another way to capture the man’s attention…

Ah. Talking.

He grimaced a bit, before moving back to his place on the armchair right next to Lestrade’s spot on the sofa. “How have you been, then?” he tried, soon realising how awfully pedestrian it must have sounded. God, he was horrible at this.

Greg didn’t seem to mind, though. He raised his head again, sitting back a bit more comfortably and shrugging, “all good. Just a few calm days at works, nothing really worth Sherlock’s time. Could be the reason why I haven’t really felt annoyance in a while. A nice change.”

Mycroft smiled, “oh yes, that must be a nice change, truly.”

“You two do realise that I’m still here, right?” Sherlock sneered, before John could try to stop him. “Do get a room.”

“The only rooms available are your bedroom or the loo, and I’d love to see your face if we did in fact try any of those,” Greg hummed in response, giving the younger Holmes an innocent smile.

Sherlock’s eyes widened, but soon enough he scoffed and turned to hide his red face in John’s neck, making both Doctor Watson and Molly chuckle.

Meanwhile, Mycroft was going through a crisis.

His leg began bouncing slightly. Did Greg really just say that or was it all a figment of his imagination? He knew it was just a snarky comment used to get back at Sherlock, but it made his head spin.

And Lestrade most definitely noticed as he reached out to place a hand on Mycroft’s wrist. His whole body froze again.

“All right?” he asked quietly, leaning in for discretion.

Mycroft looked around, but no one seemed to be interested in their conversation. Molly was too busy taking pictures of embarrassed Sherlock Holmes and John was still trying to calm his boyfriend down with his arm wrapped around him tightly.

He took a deep breath, “yes.”

“If you want to get out of here for a second, you can, you know? If it’s overwhelming, we can pretend to leave for a smoke. If you’d like me to go with you, that is,” the man said in the softest voice anyone had ever spoken to him in. It made Mycroft’s heart flutter.

“It’s really fine,” he nodded. “Thank you, Gregory. It’s really considerate of you.”

“Anytime,” he whispered and leaned back in his seat, giving Mycroft’s wrist one last squeeze before letting go.

“So… I’m assuming Sherlock has informed you,” he mumbled quietly, looking down to his hands.

He couldn’t see Greg’s face, but he could hear his worry in his tone, “Mycroft, it’s not- It’s really nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Are we still talking about the same thing?” he scoffed.

“Hey, look at me,” he moved to the edge of the sofa, his dark eyes boring into him.

Mycroft gulped, hesitating for a moment, before looking up. Keeping a cold and collected facade proved to be impossible.

“You’re in a room with an ex-military man with PTSD, your sociopathic brother, a girl recovering from an eating disorder and an old man suffering from chronic stress. There isn’t a single mentally stable person in here,” he said quietly, making Mycroft crack a small smile, “so, please. If you think your anxiety can make me think any less of you, you’re wrong. Actually, it only makes me more proud of you… All the things you have to do on daily, while suffering on the inside… It’s truly admirable.”

His eyes were glossy, but he quickly blinked it away. Or at least attempted to. “Gregory…”

“No, I am not finished yet-” he cut him off with a shake of his head- “You’re the smartest and bravest man I have ever known and you don’t get nearly enough credit for that. It hurts me to watch you feel insecure around me, ‘cuz trust me, you’re so much more than you think you are…” he smiled softly.

“No, really, Greg-”

“Excuse me, but shut up.” He rolled his eyes. “When it gets heavy, just know that you’re not alone and you’ve got a friend by your side. Always,” he nodded, before sighing and gesturing to him with his hand, “now you may speak.”

Mycroft drew his lip between his teeth and looked down to his lap. They were sitting right across from one another, his right knee touching Greg’s left, the heat of said touch leaving him with an overwhelming feeling of trust and tenderness inside his chest.

“You always surprise me, Detective Inspector…” he uttered after a moment.

“It shouldn’t be a surprise, really. I like you. It’s really not so difficult to find you charming, Mycroft,” he grinned.

Holmes found himself sinking in his armchair. He allowed himself to sit back, moving his leg away from Gregory’s. That was dangerous, all of it. Greg wanted to understand him, he wanted to talk whenever Mycroft shut him out, he texted him often, maybe even missed him, wanted to spend time with him, he guided him, supported him, waited for him and gave him… hope. He knew what that meant. And it was terrifying.

“You’re going to have to tell me when you need me, okay?” The detective spoke up again, pulling Mycroft out of his thoughts. “Just give me a sign. I’ll help you through it, whatever you need. I made you come here, it’s my responsibility.”

Mycroft didn’t want him to feel as if it was his responsibility to look after him. He didn’t want to ruin the night for Gregory Lestrade, the most caring, loving and considerate person he had ever had the fortune of meeting. He wanted to tell him all of that, show him how he wanted him to have just as much fun as everyone else instead of fixating on the idea of Mycroft’s well-being, but seeing his grin made him realise it all.

Greg didn’t mind. He didn’t consider him a burden. His head might have gotten too far, but for a second there he allowed himself to believe that not only was he not a hazard to the party, but Greg also attended it only for him.

“Can I-” Lestrade looked to him, his hand reaching to take Mycroft’s.

He took it slowly, looking up at Greg hesitantly. He only batted his lashes in response, beaming.

As Doctor Watson began torturing Sherlock with tickles, making Molly laugh out loud while recording the whole thing for future blackmail purposes, Lestrade’s attention turned back to them. He sat back in his more comfortable position, one of his legs pulled up, the other hanging off the edge of the sofa as he was leaning against the side of said piece of furniture. The armchair was (thankfully) close enough to where Greg was sat for the two of them to keep their fingers interlaced comfortably.

Mycroft didn’t know for how long that gesture would last, but he knew that it would live forever in his head.

As John looked up from his Sherlock (curled up, fuming and red in the face), his gaze fell upon Gregory’s hand. His eyes flicked back up to the other’s and Mycroft could have sworn the two shared a small smile, before Watson turned away again.

The party kept on going and Mycroft found himself clinging onto his personal assistant’s piece of advice (and the hand of a certain law enforcement officer). Although he had not planned on getting drunk, he did agree for a glass of red wine. One thing led to another and soon enough Greg turned into a joking disaster, while Mycroft found himself willing to laugh at every single pun the man had to offer.

Sherlock, of course, noticed the two’s state and the older Holmes was almost sure that he would eventually take advantage of that. But for the moment given, he couldn’t care less.

“I’m glad this isn’t one of those horrid Scotland Yard parties. They dance there. I’ve got two left feet,” Greg hummed after a moment, looking over to the man next to him. Seeing his amused look, he shook his head, “no, really. I’m a terrible dancer.”

“I’m sure it can’t be that bad,” Mycroft smiled at that, trying his hardest not to chuckle. He had been acting giddy enough already.

“Maybe I’ll show you one day. Once we open that lovely scotch you got me.”

“We?” he queried.

“You’d spent thousands on the finest bottle of scotch I have ever seen and you dare to think I would open it without you? No. Fucking. Way,” he emphasised his point with a bright grin on his face.

Mycroft turned crimson.

“I would need at least three more glasses of this-” he raised his wine glass- “in order to attempt dancing.”

“Your wish is my command,” John laughed, filling the guest’s vessel up again. Then, after a short moment of hesitation, he did the same with Mycroft’s, Molly’s, and finally Sherlock’s.

“I was not planning on leaving here pissed, mate…” Greg whined a bit, but the older shut him up with a ‘shush’ and a large grin on his face.

“I was not planning on drinking at all. And here we are,” Molly giggled and Mycroft gave a quiet ‘ah’ in agreement. “Mycroft- If I may call you that..”

“Yes, of course, Miss Hooper,” he nodded with a reassuring look on his slightly reddish face.

“It’s just Molly,” she chuckled, tapping her fingers against the glass nervously. “I was wondering… Sherlock’s never mentioned… Do you live alone?”

“Oh?” he raised his eyebrow.

“I’m sorry if it’s too personal, I was just-” she stammered, but Mycroft cut her off with a shake of his head.

“It’s fine. My private assistant’s bedroom and main living area is in the mansion, but I do not appreciate sleeping there on a daily basis. I work there and then leave for the flat in central London that I’ve recently come into possession of,” he explained calmly, making Greg snort. He turned to him, “what?”

“Nothing,” he giggled, squeezing his hand, “you’re just still so posh, even when drunk.”

“I’m only tipsy, Gregory.”

“Well. That’s gonna have to change, then.”

“So,” he cleared his throat, ignoring the police officer next to him, “I do, in fact, live alone, Miss- Molly.”

The woman nodded, licking her lips anxiously, before looking back up, “so do I.”

“And I,” Greg sighed, sticking his free hand out to Molly, expecting a high-five. And he did get one, along with a warm smile coming from Doctor Hooper herself.

“So you’ve just moved?” she queried once again, making Mycroft nod.

“Well, yes. The mansion appeared to be… too much,” his brows furrowed.

“Understandable.”

“Pardon?”

“Well,” Molly gulped, “it’s not always easy to be alone, especially when you have loads of space you could possibly share with someone. I don’t know if that’s how it works for you, but it most definitely works that way for me.”

“Living alone in a huge house must be horrible. It would probably make me feel even more miserable and single than I already do,” Lestrade added with a hint of nostalgia in his voice.

“And small flats are much more comfortable, anyways,” Doctor Watson joined in, smiling. “Whether you live alone, with a partner or just a flatshare, the less space the more ‘like home’ it will feel. At least that’s how I see it.”

“Oh, I’d agree,” Greg hummed.

“It’s also much harder to avoid things you wouldn’t want to come across,” said Sherlock, whose disappearance only then became suspicious.

Before Mycroft had any time to think about it further, Miss Hooper’s eyes widened and Watson laughed out loud at something right behind him. As he turned, he immediately locked eyes with his younger brother.

“Sherlock!” John shook his head, but his boyfriend didn’t bother to respond verbally.

“Look up, brother mine,” was all Sherlock had to say on the matter.

And as Mycroft did as he was told, he froze.

Mistletoe.

Gregory Lestrade’s face was the last thing he wanted to see at the moment given. Would he ever be able to look the Inspector in his eyes again? Sherlock was really trying to turn his whole emotional life into a disaster.

No one dared to speak up. Not even Sherlock, who seemed to finally understand the look on Mycroft’s face and consider backing off. But, obviously, he did no such thing.

Both Holmes brothers knew how their family treated Christmas traditions. As much as they both despised most of them, the mistletoe was often used against their will. Back when they were still kids, Mummy would stand above them with a few mistletoe twigs and make them show each other any sort of affection. At first, Mycroft didn’t mind as much as Sherlock did. Later on they both grew to hate mistletoe.

He could have simply ignored it - laugh it off, roll his eyes and give a quick, but mean enough comment to blow his irritable little brother. He should have… but he simply couldn’t.

“Sherlock…” he began, his brittle voice making his sibling frown.

“Are you caught in l’appel du vide yet?” Sherlock queried, his lips curving into a small, sly smirk.

“Leave your brother alone, will you?” Greg spoke up, making both Holmeses turn to him. “What? Did you really think anyone with a surname like ‘Lestrade’ wouldn’t understand French?”

Mycroft found himself completely startled. Was Greg defending him? Why? What was he getting out of any of this? Not knowing the answer to that question (while also not being entirely sure if he was ready to find it out), he glanced away yet again. Anywhere but Sherlock or Greg would be just fine.

He felt a gentle squeeze of his hand. The gesture was so subtle, yet suggestive, that it made his heart race. He didn’t need a direct request to know what the man wanted from him. That simple squeeze expressed only one plea - ‘Look at me’.

He complied. Once again, he found himself completely lost in the other’s eyes, ignoring the presence of everyone else in the room. Even the fact that they were staring didn’t seem to matter.

Greg, sitting across from him as calmly as he possibly could, smiled at him softly, before tugging on his hand in a gentle manner. He raised it a bit, giving the other a questioning look. Mycroft gave a short nod, ducking his head. Greg didn’t have to be told twice.

He raised his hand even higher, up to his chin. Their eyes met one more time and the Inspector held his companion’s gaze for a long while, making sure that everything was fine.

It was more than fine. It was perfect. And with every single non-verbal question it was only getting better. He understood him. And most importantly, he wanted to make sure that he understood him _correctly._

The man’s lips pressed to Mycroft’s knuckles in the softest way he could imagine and his breath hitched. Despite the fact that the kiss ended as soon as it started, he could feel the exact spot still burning after.

Gregory let their fingers interlace again, before lowering both their hands back to their previous spot on the armrest. Mycroft’s chest tightened once again, the overwhelming feeling of trust making him give a short smile.

“Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?” Greg teased, his head tilting as he stared at the other in awe.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “it’s probably the wine.”

“Oh, most definitely…” he chuckled quietly, his voice much huskier than before. It took him a moment to snap out of his thoughts, before he turned to the rest of the guests in the room, groaning, “sod off!”

“Gosh, fine, okay, sorry!” John burst out laughing, waving at Sherlock to come back to his seat. The consulting detective just smiled proudly and hung the plant back above the doorway.

Even though Gregory did not make any attempts at prolonging their previous conversation, Mycroft could sense the tension between them. Something had been left unsaid again. And the way Greg stared at him (mostly his lips and jawline) whenever he spoke or smiled made it clear.

**************************************

“Thanks for coming, everyone.” John hummed as all the guests moved to the hallway and grabbed their coats.

“It’s my ride, I’ll see you soon!” Molly beamed after a moment, hurrying to the door. “Bye!”

“You’ve got a ride home, too?” Greg turned over to Mycroft, but the latter just shrugged.

“I gave my driver an evening off… So no, I suppose not.”

“And there’s no way I could drive.”

“I would not let you.”

“What about a nice midnight stroll, then?”

“You live on the other side of the city, Gregory.”

“I could always walk you home first.”

“I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“But you do need a friend. I happen to know someone who’d love to be that for you.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft thought about it for a short while, his drunken mind not allowing him to process it all the right way. Even after he’d managed to go through their entire conversation once more, he couldn’t form a sentence that would in fact make any sense. And the way Greg looked so calm and dreamy and his voice sounded so husky and tender...

“I think it’d be better if I just walked alone now. I’m sure you understand…” he tried, his face flushing at the sight of Greg’s eyes widening.

“Oh- no, no, that’s completely fine!” he assured him with a quick smile. “Just- Give me a ring once you’re home? Just to make sure you’re… safe.”

Mycroft nodded and turned to get his umbrella. “Goodnight, Gregory…” he whispered, turning to him with a smile on his face, “I had a lot of fun tonight. All thanks to you.”

“As long as you’re happy, I’m satisfied,” he said with a soft sigh, as he watched his companion walk down the stairs and disappear into the busy streets of London.

**************************************

Going back to work after a long night spent with a constantly refilled glass of red wine and an even more intoxicating smile of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was not an easy task. Especially when he had two long meetings to attend and couldn’t catch a single grammatically correct sentence. Anthea was of much help to him the whole day, making notes and tapping his shoulder discreetly whenever his daydreaming would get too obvious, and he knew what sort of conversation was waiting for him once he’d go back to his office.

Another man in a three piece suit began presenting his imaginative solution to yet another worldwide crisis that Mycroft had absolutely no interest in and his mind immediately travelled back to 221B Baker Street.

“When it gets heavy, just know that you’re not alone and you’ve got a friend by your side.”

Mycroft drew his lower lip between his teeth, chewing on it anxiously. He could already feel Anthea’s finger tap him again, but he waved her off with a gentle gesture of his hand. He hadn’t lost himself yet, but he was quite close. Balancing on the edge, truly.

“It’s really not so difficult to find you charming, Mycroft…”

He clenched his fist - his knuckles burned in the exact same spot as the night before. He had no idea how that was possible, but he could have sworn Gregory’s kiss left a mark on his skin, one that he couldn’t get rid of no matter how hard he tried.

He sucked in a breath, relaxing his hand. As much as it hurt him to do so, he let it fall onto his lap, keeping his gaze low. This had to stop. All of it.

“Alright, lovebird. Just one more slideshow and we’re off,” he heard Anthea’s hushed tone straight in his ear. He pressed his lips together, glancing over at the orator.

One more slideshow. He could make it.

**************************************

“Your notes are on the desk, I’ve already prepared a short report on exactly what the projects were about since you didn’t seem to listen to them at all… But you know, who am I to judge, I’m just your assistant,” Anthea began, closing the door behind her and crossing her arms. “It’s totally, most definitely and absolutely not like all your co-workers who had noticed your daydreaming are going to ask me thousands of questions that I don’t even know how to answer. And, to add up to that, it’s totally, most definitely and absolutely not like we could get in trouble for your lack of input, focus and discretion today!”

“Come again? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of me losing the will to live,” Mycroft blurred out, looking up from the papers on his lap.

“Seriously, you’re acting more than unwise. What’s going on?”

“Apart from the embarrassment beyond what I’m capable of handling… I’m dandy, why do you ask?”

“Can you, for once, talk to me like a human being? Last time I checked I was your only friend. I see that’s changed. It is that new friend of yours that you had spent last night with and now you’re…” she looked him up and down, “...like this. So tell me, what did Gregory Lestrade do to you at that darn Christmas party that could have possibly turned you into a besotted disaster?”

“Must you always make things sound so dramatic? I am just slightly unfocused, it won’t happen again!” he hissed back at her, making her raise her eyebrows.

She kept her cool, though. Like always, cold and poker-faced. “I am not telling you to give up on whatever emotional state you’re going through at the moment. I’m asking you to tell me what is happening so we could find a solution. Make it work… As much as I love seeing you drool over a boy like a high-schooler, it is interrupting your unshakeable schedule.”

“You know an awful lot about me for someone who’s supposed to only segregate my paperwork and make notes.”

Anthea rolled her eyes. “Really, Mycroft. That’s low. Even for you.”

“You mean ‘especially for me’, don’t you?”

“I know what I meant. And I have said it.”

“Oh, you’ve insulted me. What ever shall I do? I’ll be emotionally scarred for years.”

“You can, if you’d like, but first you’ll tell me what happened. You don’t even know how worried I am,” she stated firmly, making him groan.

“Nothing happened. There were presents, then alcohol-”

“Did you get drunk and joke around?”

“You could say that. However, it was never my intention.”

“I’ve told you. That’s what you always end up doing during Christmas parties with friends-”

“You wanted me to talk, so will you allow me to do so or do I have to kick you out of here? Thank you. Now, where was I?” he raised both of his hands to his face, before rubbing his eyes and humming quietly. “Oh, yes. Well. We were sitting in the living room. I was mostly busy observing the domestic bliss that my dear brother has turned his life into. It is rather… peaceful. That is quite a relief, to be honest. Made me wonder.”

Anthea found herself leaning back against the armrest of the nearest chair. Her focus appeared clear on her static face. She was truly listening to whatever he had to say. He tugged on his tie and cleared his throat.

“So, as the guests were engaged in a dialogue of some sort, Greg decided to try, what I would call, small talk. It wasn’t necessarily the most comfortable of conversations, but I must admit it was quite pleasurable. Soon, Miss Hooper joined in and I found myself quite shocked. I did not suspect I would actually enjoy it. But there I was, talking openly. Of course, I felt much better when it was just me and Gregory, but that is understandable-”

“Since you fancy him.”

“Since he’s an intelligent individual that I don’t mind the company of,” he corrected her confidently. “After a few hours of drinking red wine and chatting we said our goodbyes and went home.”

Silence fell between the two. Anthea’s glare felt like sharp knives carving into his skin, keeping him in suspense, before she finally drew in a short breath and popped her lips.

“False.”

“False?” he furrowed his brows.

“That is simply not true. You did say your goodbyes and you did go two separate ways, but something happened before that. Something that made you like this. Now, we had a deal.”

Mycroft huffed, hiding his pale face in his hands. He could feel his forehead begin to sweat. Why did he have to hire such a quick and observant assistant?!

Deciding that he had nothing left to lose anyways, he gave in. “He kissed my hand.”

“What?!”

“That menace of a human that I must call my brother hung a mistletoe twig above the two of us, he had to!”

“He really didn’t, unless he truly believes in bad luck!”

“But it’s a tradition-”

“And Sherlock was joking! He wanted to fool you and you let him! That only proved his point!”

Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin line, “that point being?”

“You two would do anything to have that sort of thing happening to you. You’ll use every single occasion, whenever, wherever and however. And it’s also mutual. He kissed your hand. He didn’t have to, he could have done anything else, he could have done nothing at all, but he took your hand and kissed it.”

“He had been holding my hand the whole time, actually-”

“And when exactly were you going to add that nitty gritty detail?”

“I did not think it would be relevant to the story.”

“That is literally the most relevant point of this whole conversation, Mycroft.”

“What I do and who is involved should not be your concern.”

“Does your Mummy know?”

“Shut up.”

“What do you think she’d say about this?”

Mycroft put the folder away and exhaled deeply. “A lot, I imagine. She’d have quite a lot to say. While there’s not much to unpack here on my side.”

“I think that’s quite a list of things to unpack that you’ve got there. Just saying.”

“If you could fetch me those notes and reports, please, that would be lovely,” he murmured after a moment and Anthea seemed to get the point.

That conversation was over. And there was no way she could get him to open up for a while longer. Not just yet.

**************************************

“What do you mean you’re not sure if he likes you!?” Watson rubbed his face in exasperation. “You aced that kiss, mate! I could feel the tension between you two from my seat!”

“Oh yeah, brill. Especially when he ditched my offer to walk him home, he must like me very much!” Greg groaned, sitting back in the enormous armchair in the corner of Speedy’s Cafe.

“Maybe he was just tired… Or he was getting a bit too excited,” he kicked the other’s ankle underneath the table, making him wince.

“Shut it. Have you ever seen him get ‘too excited’?”

“And have you ever seen him as lovestruck as he was last night?” John raised his eyebrow, giving the other a serious look. “Because I know Sherlock hasn’t. Ever.”

Greg’s breath hitched. Lovestruck? “You’re fucking with me.”

“Most definitely not. I have a boyfriend.”

The two shared a quick glance and soon burst out laughing.

“Alright, alright, now…” John shook his head and filled his cup up with tea again, “you should really reconsider asking him out again.”

“Again?” Greg questioned with a quizzical expression on his face. “I haven’t asked him out before-”

“You’re trying to tell me you’d invited him to a Christmas party with friends, got drunk, held hands all night, coquetted him and wrapped him around your finger, then kissed his knuckles being all sweet and tender about it, even offered to walk him home after, and it wasn’t a date?!” he hissed, slowly getting irritated, “God, you’re hopeless!”

“Don’t friends do that..?” he asked, soon clearing his throat, “I mean, not the flirting part, the… being sweet. And walking people home. And… inviting them to a family event?”

“No?!” John’s eyes widened. “You’re worse than I was! And I was a bloody idiot!”

Greg huffed. Maybe Watson was right. Of course, the chances were slim and if he messed up he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself, but the memory of Mycroft’s fond gaze as they joked back and forth… It made his face flush.

“You’re going to fall in love soon, if you’re not already down that road. And if I may… I think he’s also getting there. So. It’s your move.”

Love was a dangerous emotion and Greg was fully aware of that. He’s been hurt and betrayed before by love itself, making any sort of relations with people much harder than ever before. But with Mycroft it felt so… simple. It was quick and uncontrolled, but beautiful at the same time. That of all things terrified Greg the most. He had always considered himself a decisive and rational man, but there was no rational decision to be made with Mycroft Holmes.

“Ask him out. Make it cryptic if you’re still afraid, but do it. You don’t want to lose your only chance, now do you?” John emphasized, setting his cuppa back on the table to lean closer, “it could be worth it in the end. And if Sherlock is correct, which is not impossible and we both know it, it will be.”

**************************************

Days went by mercilessly fast. Waking up, going to work, coming back home, eating dinner and crashing on the sofa out of pure exhaustion. By the end of the week Greg wasn’t entirely sure if he was still alive.

He had managed to wrap up a few cases, make an important arrest and clear the archive, sending all the files to the COP, gaining himself just a little bit of free time in the afternoons. The work overload could get a bit overwhelming at times, but he managed. He had reasons to.

Every few days he’d randomly bump into his favourite posh bloke in various places. At first they accidentally met at a cafeteria during Greg’s lunch break. Then, two days later, Mycroft just happened to be picking Sherlock up from Scotland Yard.

“You brought me lunch?” Greg had raised his eyebrows, a small smile crawling up his face. Even though fatigue had already been slowly taking over his features, the other’s presence had made him freshen up a bit.

“It’s hardly lunch, Gregory. Just pastries. I did promise I’d show you my favourite bakery, did I not?” The man had hummed softly, the sound of his voice brightening up the entire room. Greg couldn’t tell if he had been the only one to notice.

He snapped out of his thoughts as his alarm went off. Having turned it off, he turned to face the window. The sun hadn’t even risen yet. Staring into the darkness, he found himself wondering again.

Maybe John was right. Maybe he really should have asked Mycroft out right then and there, on that staircase. But then again, they were both intoxicated and tired. It wouldn’t have been the best idea after all…

But seeing Mycroft in the most random places always made his day. Like that time when he brought him pastries? He kept the small box somewhere in his office, glancing at it for reassurance every once in a while. Or when they had coffee together? God, he couldn’t get the memory of his companion’s eyes out of his head.

“You know,” Greg had hummed, before taking a small sip of his cappuccino, “that blue tie really brings out your eyes.”

“It is certainly a novelty for me since I used to despise wearing cold colours. And thank you. I appreciate that,” the man had given him that soft smile that he adored so much and in that exact moment his heart melted.

“I’d love to say something equally as posh-sounding, but as long as you’re smiling like that I can’t form a single, grammatically correct sentence…” he had whispered then, shaking his head with fondness.

He sat up, unwrapping himself from the sheets. His feet touched the cold wooden floors, searching for his slippers somewhere underneath the bed frame. He reached for his phone and stared at it for a long moment, before taking a deep breath. There he was, about to make what could have been the worst decision of his life. Or the best. Dependant on the outcome, obviously.

Here goes nothing, he thought, before typing in a message.

‘Good morning, Mycroft. Have a good one.’

Much to his surprise, he didn’t have to wait long. Mycroft’s ‘read’ icon popped up almost immediately and soon the other was typing, too.

‘Are we really going to do this now? Good morning texts? M.’

‘We could be.’  
‘If you wanted to.’

He bit his lip. God, what was he doing? Flirting with Mycroft Holmes at 5 AM, that’s what.

‘I do not mind. M.’  
‘I wish you a pleasant morning, too, Gregory. M.’  
‘It is flattering that you thought of me. Appreciated. M.’

Gregory found himself grinning at the screen.

‘Anytime.’  
‘:)’

‘:) M.’

He wanted to put the phone away, he truly did, but something inside him just wouldn’t let him do that. It could be his only chance to ask Mycroft out. And if it was… he had to make the best out of it.

‘Doing anything interesting these days?’

A reply took Mycroft longer than before. He must have thought their conversation had come to an end, then. Greg liked surprising him.

‘There’s quite a lot of meetings here and there, some people of importance fighting others and third parties trying to stop them from going down that path… M.’

‘Pure mess, then.’

‘Quite so. M.’

He hesitated. What if Mycroft was too busy to go out with him? He knew he had to hold on to the hope left, but it was getting harder.

‘Fancy a break at some point?’  
‘Not necessarily today. Any time you’d like.’

‘I’m on a schedule, I’m afraid. M.’

‘I don’t want you to overwork yourself, Mycroft.’

‘I can assure you I am not overworking myself. I’m completely fine. M.’

‘No way to meet you, then?’

‘Meet me? M.’

As soon as the message came through, the man was typing again.

‘I wasn’t aware you were asking about that sort of break. M.’

‘Does that change anything?’

‘Perhaps. M.’

Greg snorted.

‘Okay, but seriously. Dinner and that Christmas scotch, that’s what I’m offering.’  
‘My cooking, too.’

‘That last bit sounds exciting. M.’

‘It is.’  
‘So?’

‘I suppose I am free on Friday. M.’

‘7?’

‘Make it 7:30. M.’

‘Got it.’  
‘See you then :)’

‘Goodbye, Gregory. M.’

**************************************

Greg hadn’t really thought it all through. What was he doing? Inviting Mycroft over to his flat? He didn’t even have any fancy glasses for that ridiculously expensive scotch. He must have been foolish to believe that could ever be a good idea… But there he was, standing in the middle of his dining area, about to start making dinner with barely enough time to get that done before his date’s arrival.

Date. Was it really a date? He had been so sure about asking Mycroft out, but he still made it sound like a friendly offer instead… He should have been more straightforward. He supposed he still had time for that. During dinner, then. He was going to need a pint for starters…

He opened a can of beer, taking a few long sips, before setting it aside on the counter and carrying on with his cooking.

The idea of having Mycroft over wasn’t necessarily the worst one. He could already imagine the man, comfortably sitting at the table, looking up to him with his calm, but somehow fond gaze and a gentle smile. Then, he would draw in a breath, answer a question Greg would ask him and change the subject to something more casual, making some deductions about his surroundings and adding a joke. He wouldn’t laugh, though. Just huff, maybe.

But it was only a figment of his imagination. He didn’t want to get his hopes up too much. Not right before the most important night of his contemporaneous life. He had to make a good impression. Hopefully, his cooking would do the trick.

He finished the beer quickly.

“Don’t let stress take over tonight, Greg,” he whispered to himself, leaning back against the counter and closing his eyes. “You’ll be fine as long as you keep it cool. Chill out.”

‘You’re going to fall in love soon. He’s also getting there. It’s your move.’

“It’s my move,” he repeated after the nagging voice in his head, smiling to himself.

Having finished preparing the soupe à l’oignon and the flamiche he decided to redecorate the room a bit. He turned off the ceiling lamp, lighting up some candles - on the table and around the dining area. Of course, the whole flat was tidy and neat, as clean as he could possibly get it, but Greg still felt as if something was off.

Did he go too far with those candles? The room looked much better to his liking, dimly lit and definitely much warmer than before, but he couldn’t help but give in to his concerns - what if that setting scared Mycroft away..?

Maybe he was just paranoid. The more he thought about it, the more obvious it seemed. His process of overthinking the entire situation took him much more than expected - as stress brought him to the point of redecorating the room once more, the doorbell rang. Fuck.

“I’m sorry for being late, duty called.” Mycroft stood in the doorway in a more casual suit - if suits could be casual - without a vest or cufflinks. The outfit would look posh on Greg, but on him… it could be described as simple.

“All’s good. Didn’t notice-” he shrugged, but as soon as Mycroft raised his eyebrow, his own eyes widened. “Oh my God, no, not like that! I mean, uh, come in, please?”

His stammering appeared amusing to the guest, making the whole encounter slightly less awkward. He turned back to the living area, glancing over the decorations and deciding they would have to do.

“Your flat’s really… friendly-looking,” Mycroft cleared his throat, making the man look back at him.

“If that’s your way of saying it’s small and smells of candles, cigarettes and baked potatoes, thank you very much,” he grinned in response.

“Cigarettes? Weren’t you giving up smoking?”

“Weren’t you?” Greg sniffled, “I can smell low-tar from here.”

Mycroft did not try to question that, but his prior amusement turned into confusion, “so that’s why they call your sort ‘dogs’, hm?”

“My sort?” Greg scoffed, “oh, alright, Your Majesty!”

They stared at each other in silence. Mycroft - with a hint of uneasiness mixed with amusement, and Greg - with pure indignation. After a longer while the detective broke, snorting as the other quickly followed with a short laugh.

“Maybe we should just-”

“Yes, Gregory, that would be best.”

They moved over to the table, where Mycroft took his seat. As much as the Inspector wanted to stay there and watch him (ignoring how creepy it sounded already), he needed to get back to the kitchen. Thank God for his ex and her ‘open kitchen’ design…

“I see you’ve prepared dinner yourself,” Mycroft hummed. When Greg turned around he immediately noticed how for the first time in forever his guest’s smile actually reached his eyes.

“Oh, of course. Did you think I was going to order in for a special occasion like this?”

“A special occasion like what?”

“Well, there’s this big unopened bottle of a great kind of alcohol that I was gifted by that one handsome-looking posh bloke so-”

“Handsome-looking posh bloke. Huh,” the man mumbled and Greg froze.

Oh God. So he had said that out loud. Perfect.

“I’ve had beer before this-” he blurted out, making Mycroft snicker.

“Thank you, Gregory. I’d say you look quite charming yourself. If I may…”

“You most definitely may,” he nodded maybe a bit too eagerly. Mycroft huffed out a short laugh.

He turned his head, stealing a glance at the man at the table. He drew his lip between his teeth, hesitating a bit, before the softest murmur left his mouth, “your laugh is enticing.”

Mycroft sniffled. “Well-” he began, tugging on his tie slightly, “that is surely the most unexpected compliment tonight.”

“So far.”

“I can’t quite decide whether that is a threat or a promise.”

“Both,” he grinned to himself, “you’ll soon be sure.”

For a moment there he wanted to grab his gun and take himself out with a single shot to the head. What was he thinking? How could he just flirt with Mycroft Holmes with no boundaries whatsoever? What if he was making the other uncomfortable?

He turned to steal a glance at him. Mycroft was tapping his fingers against the table, his mouth curled into a smile. Greg licked his lips, looking away. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t as bad as he thought. He smirked. Good. No, not good - perfect.

“So… Good day at work?” he attempted to chat him up.

“Oh, yes. Long, but productive…” he sighed, “and you?”

“Good, too. Although not too productive. A nice change after a busy week.”

“I can imagine. I suppose my brother was not causing any trouble today?”

“Didn’t see him.”

“Ah, so that’s why you’re in such a good mood,” he gave a short, but breathy chuckle.

Greg could feel his cheeks heating up, “Well. You can’t have two cute siblings. Impossible. One of them always has to be annoying.”

“Oh?”

“It’s an unwritten rule that all parents know.”

“And how was it with you and your sisters?”

“Well, I have two sisters, as you already know-” he could hear Mycroft’s hum from behind him- “so we had one annoying, the youngest, then one adorable, the oldest, and then the one that used to be adorable, but then puberty hit and is now a wolf in sheep’s clothing, the middle child, hello, that’ me,” he turned around on his heel, snapped his fingers and bowed theatrically.

“So the youngest-”

“Bella.”

“Beautiful name. I suppose Bella is the one you are still in touch with, then?”

“And you deduced that from what, exactly?”

“You’ve mentioned your ‘little sister’ a lot. Never heard too much about-”

“Clara.”

“French?”

“Well, we all have French names. At least the girls do. Bella, Clara… From what I’ve heard I was supposed to be Danielle. They had to give up on the idea. Due to… circumstances.” He cleared his throat.

Mycroft laughed yet again. “I see. Well, at least your parents weren’t trying to be painfully original.”

“Mycroft-”

“That is exactly what I am referring to.”

Greg shook his head, giggling.

“No, seriously, Gregory. You have no idea how many times I’ve attempted reporting a hate crime.”

“Is that why you’re here tonight?”

“That’s one of the reasons, yes.”

Having finished decorating the plates, Greg made his way to the table, putting two hot bowls of soupe à l’oignon (which wasn’t nearly as fancy as it sounded) on it.

“So. There goes nothing,” he sat down, clasping his hands.

“Don’t sell yourself short. I’m sure it’s as tasty as it looks,” Mycroft reassured with a hint of warmth in his voice.

“Hopefully it’s as good as you make it sound. But then again, you make everything sound much better than it actually is. What was your commentary on Notting Hill again?”

“Emotional manslaughter?”

“Oh yes, that. I’d die to see you watch the Titanic for the first time.”

“You might have a chance. I’ve never got the chance to watch that movie.”

Greg’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean, you’ve never watched ‘I’ll never let go, Jack?’”

“I have a feeling I should know what you’re referring to-”

“We’re so watching it next time.”

“So there’s a next time..?” Mycroft raised his brow.

He cleared his throat, reaching for the spoon, “if you’d like to.”

“I’d love to.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

They ate in comfortable silence. Greg watched his guest’s first spoonful, smiling at how content he looked. So it was tasty. Great. He tried some himself, noticing how similar it tasted to the one his Mama used to make.

“You’re a good cook, Gregory,” the man hummed softly.

“Oh, well… Thank you! It’s my Mother’s secret formula, as she likes to call it,” he snickered. “She’s dramatic. But then again, she’s french.”

“I don’t see how that’s such a bad thing.”

“What was your Mother’s catchphrase?” he questioned, making Mycroft’s eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“I don’t have a good feeling about where you’re going with this… But she says ‘bugger’ a lot. Let’s just say I take after the feminine side of my family.”

“Well, so do I. But what I gained in that process is the ability to do what I am about to show you with a perfectly native-sounding accent. Now. Casse-toi, fils de pute.”

“Gregory!”

“Pardon my French!”

“And you heard that a lot around your place?”

“She is an expressive woman. While other Mums called their children ‘sweethearts’ or ‘darlings’ I was a branleur most of the time. Connard, if I was lucky.”

“And what about your sisters? Salope?”

“Oh no, mon ange or mon petit chou.”

“So she had favorites.”

“Really? Who?”

The two shared an amused look. The detective grinned from ear to ear.

“So… You and Sherlock? Any exciting stories there?” he queried after a moment.

“Well.. Depends on what you’d call exciting.”

“Oh, come on. There is no way you two had a boring childhood. I’ll tell you a story for every anecdote you tell me.”

“That’s called emotional blackmail.”

“That’s called engaging in a conversation.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, giving in. “What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know, surprise me!”

“So... I suppose I’m not the best at… memoirs.”

“Wouldn’t have guessed,” Greg rested his elbows on the table top, his empty bowl long forgotten on the side.

Mycroft gave him a glare. “Believe it or not, Sherlock and I used to get along quite well at first. We were… well, close friends. Only friends we had at the time. He liked to play pirates, I enjoyed swordsmanship… We had some things in common. Weirdly enough. We both hated humans, we liked fighting and we were smarter than other children. Of course, our fight for the title of the smartest Holmes kid began the day he began talking coherently, but to be exactly honest with you… I never took it too seriously. Only now am I growing to enjoy it.”

“But he gets you to humiliate you a lot…” he frowned.

“Well. That’s his way of showing off his smarts. He’s not only observant, but he also puts to good, yet cruel use. But as I have mentioned before, I like it. The more he gets to humiliate me, the more I get to see him.”

Sadness clouded Gregory’s features. Seeing Mycroft open up like that and be honest about something that was not only personal, but also hurtful to him was special. He did not have the habit of oversharing and it showed in his slight fidgeting. Silence fell upon them as Mycroft kept his gaze low, avoiding Greg’s. The undying and boundless love for his brother could turn the stone cold man into a softer and much more tender version of himself. He couldn’t help but wonder how many people had tried to use that against him before…

“Anyways, whenever we did something right, Mummy would do nothing but say she was proud. So, by analogy, when we made a mistake, she’d simply say she was disappointed. That method shaped who we are now. Mentioning the correct phrase in the right moment is one of the most effective ways of calming Sherlock down from his adrenaline rush.”

“And you?” Greg’s head tilted to the side.

“My mother’s respect is still a reward I would have to work for,” he cleared his throat, looking away awkwardly.

“What do you mean..? She surely must be proud of you now! Look where you are, what you’ve accomplished, who you’ve met!”

“Let’s just say it is not just your mother that is picking favourites.”

“But mine was joking, you know?”

“I don’t see what’s funny in calling your child ‘a son of a bitch’.”

Greg raised his brow, “that’s exactly what.”

“What?”

“Me - a son of a bitch. She - my mother. Get it?”

Mycroft’s eyes widened.

“Hey! It’s her saying it!” Lestrade raised his hands defensibly. “See, the point I’m trying to make here is that… Your mother has a thousand reasons to trust and respect you. Did anyone ever tell you just how amazing you are?” he asked, but seeing Mycroft’s dismissive head shake, he frowned. “That’s an actual question, Holmes. When was the last time someone has appreciated you and what you’re doing?”

“On the twenty fifth of December,” he murmured way too incoherently for Greg to believe that the bloke speaking to him in that moment was the exact same one that intimidated country leaders on a daily basis. “You were the ‘someone’ in question.”

Greg huffed out a half-laugh. “You know you deserve so much better than that, right? A daily reminder that you’re unconditionally awesome in every way, for example.”

“You can add that to the list of wishes you send me along with your good morning texts.”

“Don’t you tempt me.”

“Flattering as always…” Mycroft seemed to try to fight the smile forming on his face.

“That might be my secret talent.”

“Or you’re just talking nonsense.”

“Sorry, ever since you walked in here looking like this, I can’t quite recover.”

“Like this?”

“Utterly stunning,” he beamed.

Mycroft snorted quietly, “I can’t believe you’ve just said that out loud.”

“Me neither.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “Should I open that scotch?”

“Please do.”

That’s when the glasses were supposed to come in. His glance shifted from the cupboard to the table and to Mycroft. Alright. Deep breath. Shoulders back. Clear throat. Everything was going well, right? Why would the quality of his glasses change anything? He was being stupid. Nervous, but not in the good way - terrified. _Why?_

He sighed, putting the glasses down on the table and fetching the bottle. _Because he cared…_

“So…” Mycroft began as both vessels were full, “you’ve been cooking all afternoon?”. There was uneasiness in his voice as he spoke carefully, almost awkwardly.

“Yes, well… I’ve prepared a full course.” His quiet laughter brightened up the mood.

“Well, this dish is interesting. I must admit I have not tried anything quite like it before.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Excuse me?”

The two shared a quick look. Greg noticed pure bewilderment in his guest’s eyes and the realisation hit him.

“By that I meant that you must be kidding me, of course,” he explained, gulping.

“Right,” Mycroft looked to the side, his frown deepening, before he cleared his throat and continued. “I actually am not. I have not eaten french cuisine. Ever. And that seems to be a surprise to you. Why?”

“Well… You’ve been to many places, right?”

“Mostly on business, of course, but I’ve been to most countries of the European Union and a few states of America.”

“And you never tried french food?”

“Well, not traditional, homemade food.”

“I guarantee you, it tastes a lot better in a nice restaurant.”

“I must disagree,” Mycroft chuckled, “although I would not oppose checking your theory.”

“I know a nice place my Mama went to when she was in London. Told me she loved it.”

“Then it must really be good…” he hummed. “That is something we should put to a test.”

“We can do so during that ‘next time’ we’ve agreed on.” Greg’s smile widened a bit.

Talking to Mycroft Holmes was somehow magical. Greg wasn’t sure how it was possible for time to speed up like that, leaving the two with an empty bottle standing on the side as they chatted much more freely. By the time they were all out of their Christmas scotch, Mycroft’s jacket was already off. He was visibly relaxed, laughing even more often than during that darn party. It was almost as good - with one exception. That time Greg didn’t get to hold his hand for hours, just caressing his knuckles gently with his thumb.

But just as he was most lost in the conversation, he noticed it. ‘It’ being the way Mycroft’s lips moved as he accented his every word with elegance. He wanted to curse him for being so dreadfully stunning all the time, but had a feeling that it wouldn’t necessarily be his best bet.

Not saying a word, he kept his gaze away, trying to find something in the room that he could stare at without a fatal consequence, but his eyes would flick back to those lips every single time. There was no escape from the mesmerising view.

“Gregory? Are you quite alright? You look dizzy,” the flawless man before him spoke up again and Greg forced a grin on to his reddish face.

“Yeah, sorry. You were saying?” he blinked, resting his chin on his clenched fist.

Mycroft furrowed his brows, but soon gave a nod and went on about yet another international crisis that he had to deal with. And again, Greg found himself lost in his thoughts.

He wondered just how stupid the idea of reaching out to take the man’s hand would be. Ever since he had first felt the sensation of holding said hand in his own he couldn’t stop thinking about the possibility of it happening again. He remembered the feeling way too vividly, subconsciously longing for it. He wondered if the other still remembered the moment they shared beneath that mistletoe.

By the time Greg snapped back to reality, Mycroft wasn’t talking anymore. The realisation hit him like a punch in the face, making his eyes widen. Terror overtook his features - God, how long did he zone out for?

“You know, I can do this all night,” said the taller man calmly.

“What?”

“You’re either challenging me for a staring contest or you’re just that invested in my story. I can’t imagine the Russian election being so interesting for you, so do enlighten me - is there something on my face?”

Greg surely wished there was. He licked his lips, “no.”

“It could be the alcohol,” he cleared his throat nonchalantly, “but I could have sworn you were ‘checking me out’, as the youth likes to call it.”

Shit. “Well.” ‘It’s your move.’ “What can I say, I like what I see.”

“You’re a dangerous individual, aren’t you?” Mycroft leaned back in his suit, amusement lightening up his eyes.

Greg grinned. Score. “Whatever you mean? I’m a ray of sunshine.”

“Oh yes, that is most definitely true.”

“That’s why we work, you know?”

“Work?”

“Ray of sunshine that can be very cold when something aggravates him and the ‘Ice Man’ that’s actually the most lovable person in the room. Soulmates.”

“That’s an interesting theory you’ve got there, Gregory… Although there aren’t many scientific aspects of the ‘Soulmate’ lore.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t you dare try to tell me you don’t believe in true love.”

“I-” Mycroft pursed his lips. “Well.”

“God, that’s the saddest thing I’ve heard from you so far.”

“I don’t get it,” he shook his head slowly. “Why is it such a bad thing? Me, not believing in the idea of everyone having just one person assigned to them from the start… It’s rational to not trust in something so… unreasonable.”

“You don’t really get it until it’s too late.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t realize just how lucky you were to be with the person that you truly loved until the moment you lose them.”

“But how can you possibly lose someone who is supposed to be ‘the one’?”

“That’s the magic of it. You’re not guaranteed to succeed in a relationship with that person. It’s like gambling. If you succeed, you win a huge prize. If you fail, you lose so much more than you had in the start. The thrill of it all is what makes it so special.”

“You think your wife was your life’s gamble?”

Greg smiled a bit, “no. I don’t think so.”

The silence that fell between them lasted for a few minutes. They sat comfortably, occasionally exchanging small smiles or lingering looks. As time passed, Greg noticed how he felt utterly at ease. He couldn’t imagine a single thing he’d rather do than spend that pleasurable evening with his guest. Even the moments of silence couldn’t cause any boredom. He wished there had been any way to tell if Mycroft felt that, too.

Glasses had been refilled twice before the bottle ended up empty. Greg completely forgot about the possible consequences of intoxication - in fact, those didn’t matter at all. He’d waited enough for that short experience of Mycroft’s presence to waste a moment more worrying about the outcome.

They talked up until it got late. When Mycroft spoke about yet another thing he was passionate about, Greg listened with both interest and adoration written on his face. Then he’d chime in with a quick joke or a cheeky comment, giving the other man a reassuring look, before focusing on his monologue once again. He didn’t mind. Not even a little bit. It felt amazing - just being there, listening, being the one that The Ice Man would open up to with such ease and comfort.

Mycroft reached to check the time and murmured something under his breath, letting his gaze wander around the room.

“I’m afraid I must get going now. It is getting rather late.” He stated almost too formally for someone who had just talked about a high school drama teacher from their teenage years.

“Yes, I guess it is,” Greg nodded, moving to stand up, “you’ve got a driver picking you up tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.” he moved to collect their empty glasses and carry them to the kitchen. “Sounds about right.”

His guest didn’t seem to put too much thought into that comment and Greg was quite grateful for it. Maybe he was being ridiculously selfish and immature, but the thought of someone else seeing Mycroft like that left him uneasy. Jealous? Maybe.

“Thank you for such a nice evening, Gregory. I’ve had loads of fun,” the man said softly after a moment of silence.

Once again, Greg felt dizzy. “My pleasure. You should come around more often, just let me know when you’ve got a free evening or something.”

“I believe we do have some plans that must not be left unattended…”

“Oh yes, most definitely.”

The detective had no idea just how and when the two of them managed to make their way to the anteroom. However, what he did know was that they were way too close. They stood together, facing each other and simply observing.

It could have been the alcohol itself, but Greg could have sworn that Mycroft’s stare left his own for a short moment just to slide down to his lips. A shiver went down his spine as confusion and anticipation shook his heart. He couldn’t breathe.

The longer they stood there in utter silence, the more he longed to just feel it already - the taller man’s lips against his own, experienced, but unsure. He couldn’t help but wonder… would he be passionate or gentle? He could imagine both and couldn’t quite tell which version he liked more. Either was good. Just either. He would take anything this man was willing to give him.

He felt warmth in his chest. At first he ignored it, thinking it was probably just his heart palpitations or yet another wave of embarrassment and awkwardness, but soon enough he realised that it wasn’t that sort of warmth at all. No emotion could ever make his knees go weak just like the touch of Mycroft Holmes’ hand.

‘God, just do it already.’

He didn’t want to push it too far. Neither did he want to end up whimpering or begging. He had a little bit of dignity left that he planned on keeping up as long as possible. Still, what he wanted the most was for Mycroft to get on with it. Of course, he could have just done it himself, but the idea of letting the less ‘knowledgeable’ take it as slow as he wanted to was (and had to be) the plan. As much as he craved for the sensation, he decided he would wait however long Mycroft would like him to.

But for Christ’s sake, it was going to be hard…

“Goodnight, Gregory… I hope you get good rest.” he whispered, once again making the detective disturbingly aware of just how close his face had been the whole time.

“Goodnight,” he mumbled back, the words coming out more like gasps than actual words, “get home safe.”

“Will do.”

And with that, Mycroft disappeared, and so did the warm and fuzzy feeling he had felt on his skin.

**************************************

“Fondness…”

“I-”

“Compassion…”

“Sally-”

“Besottedness- Yearning!”

“Yes, Donovan, I think you’ve got your point across, can you stop now?!” the man finally snapped, letting the pen he had been holding slip away from his grasp. “You’re not my favourite best friend today.”

“I’m not your favourite best friend on any day so it’s no big deal for me,” Sally rolled her eyes dramatically and flopped down on the sofa again.

“What do you want me to say?”

“What happened last night, duh.”

“Nothing happened!” Greg put his hands up, groaning loudly, but his friend clearly wasn’t having any of it.

“Don’t get me wrong but you’re not exactly the most subtle person I know. The opposite, actually. I could sense your ‘I have a secret’ vibe from my office. And that’s quite deep down the hall, love…” she raised her eyebrow. “Every Tom, Dick and Harry knows you’ve either had sex or a very affirming date last night and Anderson’s team’s begun placing bets already.”

“You all scare me.”

“We’re coppers, we’re meant to be naturally terrifying.” She gave a sly grin, before she got serious once again. “So did you ask him?”

Greg gulped. “Ask him what?”

“If it hurt when he fell from heaven?” she snorted, making the man pick up that damn pen only to throw it at her. “Ow! You don’t like that?”

“No!”

“You always could have asked if he knows whether there are any copies.”

“Copies of what?”

“That picture perfect face.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

They both burst out laughing. As they managed to calm down (which was not an easy task after all), and stared at each other for a longer while, the grins refused to fade away from their faces.

“You’re so much happier,” she noted.

“Am I?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, “that’s good. That’s really fucking good, boss.”

“You barely ever call me that.”

Sally smiled. “Consider today your lucky day, then.”

A knock on the door made them both jump up and turn to the visitor.

“Sergeant Donovan,” the man in his late twenties began, clearly nervous. Greg smirked. First job like that, then. “We’ve had a call-in. There’s been a murder on Lyall Street.”

“Ta,” she murmured, getting up and stretching her back. She’d got way too comfortable on that sofa. “You coming, Greg?”

“Yeah,” he nodded quickly, turning to gather his stuff, “give me three minutes.”

They ended up leaving in separate cars. The forensic team arrived at the crime scene only a few minutes later, but that time was enough for Greg to take a look around the area.

“The victim’s name is Charles Roberts, 57 years old, a politician. He was staying in London for some sort of business. Arrived on Friday and planned to leave tomorrow. No political enemies that we know of… For now,” stammered out a younger detective that Lestrade had never had the dubious pleasure of working with before.

“Footprints? Witnesses?” Sally chimed in, flipping through the notes she’d been handed.

“No, ma’am. There were no footprints or fingerprints on the victim. No one in the neighbourhood’s heard or seen anything suspicious. There are no cameras in the area. The only one that citizens mentioned is currently out of order.”

The body lay on the doorstep of Belgravia’s London Lifestyle Apartments; however, there were no witnesses whatsoever. How convenient was that?

“So we have no witnesses, no DNA prints and no camera footage,” Greg pursed his lips.

“Well- Yes.”

Detective Inspector turned over to his equally confused colleague and tilted his head. She knew what that meant. With a sigh of resignation, she shrugged.

“Fine. Call him.”

“Really?”

“I don’t feel like spending hours out here, it’s freezing, just call him.”

The desperation in her voice made Lestrade even more concerned than before. There was something terribly wrong about the entire case, but he just couldn’t put his finger on it yet. No matter what, the feeling of uneasiness in his chest was there and it simply wouldn’t let go.

“We’re going to examine the body now,” said Anderson, approaching the three officers. He was already putting his gloves on.

“Don’t,” Lestrade cut him off quickly, “until he comes around, nobody touches anything, understood?”

“What? This is my jo-”

“Until he comes around, nobody touches anything,” he repeated, glaring at the other man from above his phone.

Philip huffed. “Ridiculous.”

“Look, this is a tricky case.” Sally tried to reason. “You know I’m not exactly the biggest fan of Sherlock Holmes, but if he can help us figure this out faster, then I think it’s reasonable to let him do his thing.”

“Really, Donovan? Even you?”

“Yes, even me! Because whether you like it or not, this man has a few aces up his sleeve and I don’t want to spend another evening at work. I’m pretty sure neither do you.”

“Whatever you two say, it’s done.” Greg interrupted them both with a tired hum. “He’s already on his way. I sent him a photo and he’s interested.”

“What, he’s decided it’s a six?” Sally mocked.

“No. Based on how fast he responded ‘on my way’, I think it’s at least an eight and a half.”

Just like the DI had suspected, it only took Sherlock around ten minutes to arrive at the given address. He jumped out of the cab, followed by his partner and assistant, Doctor Watson. Greg couldn’t help but smirk a bit. No matter how pedestrian the setting would be, the two always looked somehow cartoonish.

“Good afternoon, Lestrade,” murmured the taller man quickly, stopping in front of the group. “Hit me, then.”

“You mean data or an actual punch, because I’m down for both-”

“Oh, for God’s sake-”

“Charles Roberts. Politician, late 50s, came to London for some sort of a project. Gunshot wound, no footprints, no fingerprints, no cameras and no witnesses. Nothing was stolen, the attacker didn’t even approach the victim.”

With every single word Greg was saying, the smile on Sherlock’s face widened. He could sense Donovan tensing up next to him. Poor girl couldn’t get used to the slightly psychotic side of their favourite consulting detective.

“Has anything been moved?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Anderson groaned, turning everyone’s attention back to him.

“You got the wrong Holmes,” Sherlock responded sharply.

Greg fought to conceal his grin. His reaction didn’t go unnoticed, since not even seconds later he could feel a bony elbow nudge his side forcefully.

“Ouch-! What now?” he hissed at her as soon as Holmes was too fixated on the victim to care about their banter.

“Stop grinning at every mention of Big Brother! You’re disgustingly in love,” she grimaced.

“What, you jealous?”

“I hate it here.”

“John, come over here for a moment! I need a second opinion.” Holmes’ voice was heard yet again, as the man stood up straight, fixing his collar and stepping away from the body.

Doctor Watson had no choice other than to examine the body like his impatient partner had asked him to. He got a look here and there, soon joining the others on the side.

“Well, the cause of death is clearly the shot, there’s no doubt in that,” John began, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “The bullet hit his left lung, he choked on his own blood and eventually bled out. He’s been dead for around four to five hours. The blood spot is quite big so I would say he’s been shot from a distance of… I don’t know, maybe fifteen-”

“Thirteen.” Sherlock butted in.

“Right. Thirteen feet. The angle’s quite weird, whoever it was couldn’t have been just passing by… Maybe someone fired from one of the windows?”

“Interesting, but no.” the detective cleared his throat. “Sixty degree angle, from his left side. The murderer most likely yelled something before shooting to grab the victim’s attention. Roberts didn’t turn his whole body, just his head and torso, the latter being turned just slightly enough for the shooter to miss the heart that he was first aiming for. Our last and only question would be - how did he escape the scene without leaving any tracks? This is clearly a perfectly prepared set. No witnesses, no cameras, an influential man killed in broad daylight. The killer is confident, collected, skilled and most likely doesn’t work alone. I’d say this is a bigger case.”

“So that question... “ Sally furrowed her brows. “How did he leave the crime scene?”

“It’s obvious.”

“Clearly not to anyone but you, elaborate.”

“John?” He turned to his partner for some endorsement, but the doctor only shrugged. “Oh God… Remember the angle of our blood tail? Both the victim and our killer had to be moving at the same time. If no strange men were seen walking down Belgravia’s streets today with a weapon in hand, then what could have? A car. He was in a car. Must have been.”

“Well, that would make sense. Any car could pass by without raising suspicion…” Lestrade mumbled to himself.

“Exactly my point. See? You’re getting there,” he gave a fake smile. “Now. We have nothing else to go on, there’s no way we can find the organisation that’s responsible for this attack. We have to wait until they make a mistake. For now, we can try to find possible patterns.”

“Organisation? Patterns? Sherlock, this is a single murder-”

“Followed by a string of other murders, I’m sure. The project that Charles Roberts was working on, the reason why he came to London… What is it?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t gotten into that yet.”

“Then do,” Sherlock grabbed his doctor’s hand, using the other to pull out his phone. “Text me everything you can find out. This could be our best lead. Now, good day, Inspector.”

And with that, both Baker Street boys walked back to the main road to catch a cab back home. Greg didn’t mind, he knew those two like the back of his hand and leaving without a proper goodbye or even a bit of small talk was to be expected.

“I see Mr Holmes has left already,” a feminine voice spoke from right behind him. “That’s a shame. I was really hoping to finally see him again. On the other hand, I’ll be able to get straight to the point.”

Greg turned to the woman, immediately recognising Anthea, Mycroft’s private assistant.

“Ah, well- Hello.” He tried, looking around. He couldn’t spot any black limos or posh-looking politicians, though (except for the one lying on the pavement, that is).

“This case… Quite an unusual one, wouldn’t you say?” she hummed, completely ignoring his pitiful greeting.

“A bit, yeah.”

“It’s not so hard, too. It’s utterly unnecessary to get Sherlock Holmes involved, don’t you think?”

Greg froze. Now, that was atypical. “What do you mean?”

“I was only thinking aloud. You already have enough information to continue the case on your own. Officers of New Scotland Yard are perfectly capable of leading the investigation on their own, are they not?”

“Well, of course.”

“I was just suggesting that maybe it would be better not to associate a rising star like the younger Holmes brother with a case so serious.” Anthea talked in a hushed, but professional and firm tone. “Charles Roberts was a freelance politician of quite controversial views. His death would mean the end of the freedom of speech in our country. We wouldn’t want the press to catch on to that, correct?”

She clearly knew what she was talking about. She worked in politics after all, so he had no reason not to trust her. But then again, her persuasion methods were basically transparent.

“You want me to exclude Sherlock and stay quiet about this one?” he queried with his eyebrow raised.

“Yes.”

Well. At least she was straightforward.

“So what does Mycroft have to do with this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, come on-” he groaned in an irritated manner.

“I am serious. How would I know?” she sighed softly. She didn’t look too surprised by the outcome of the conversation. “I only work for him and do as he says.”

Greg frowned. That was the first time he had ever heard her speak like a normal human being. Suddenly, she became a young, beautiful and slightly snarky girl that he had never had the chance to meet before.

“It’s not your fault…” he admitted after a moment of silence, before giving her an apologetic look and continuing, “so I am sorry that you have to be the one to hear that. I’m sure you understand regardless… Tell your boss that if he wants to silence me he’s going to have to try harder than this and at least talk to me in person. As much as I like our little conversations, I think you’re already getting tired of driving all the way to Scotland Yard at least twice a week.”

“It is slightly annoying, yes.” She snickered. “But you know him,” her face fell serious again, “he doesn’t like leaving his office too much.”

“Well, if he wants to keep my mouth shut, he’s going to have to.”

Anthea smiled sincerely. “Your message will be delivered exactly as given. In quotations, if you’d rather.”

He gave a short chuckle. “Right. Excuse me now, duty calls. If he decides I’m worthy of his attention, I’ll be in my office between four and seven today and all day tomorrow.”

She nodded and turned around on her heels, heading to the car that Greg didn’t even notice before. It must have arrived while they were talking, although there was really no excuse as to why he had missed it.

“God, I’m getting old…” he murmured to himself, before walking off to talk to the forensic science technicians.


End file.
